They say that poetry is the cure for the heart,

But the thing is—

How did it affect us that much?

Well... firstly, we go by asking, "What is poetry?"

In literary, it is a form of literature

In history, it got believed that it was a certain hymn

In modern-day, it is that fragrance from a person's lips

Rhythmic, filled with stanzas, and sometimes talks about horror or bliss

It is the color for a soulless, perverse field.

One day, I'll say—

"I will tell an ode for the sun but not an elegy for the gray"

Tapping us with its slumbering touch,

Slowly veiling with its echoing thought.

But let's not get too far away—

What is poetry once again?

It's a pretty common word to hear,

Yet such a thing is quite a mystery.

Is poetry somewhat of a push,

For all the people?

And its force is its rhythmic form...?

Does it somehow benefit the people around me,

Who's holding a book or their phone?

Which if you look at it— they're resting on their comfort zones...?

Is poetry a scripture for all,

To pose like a wholesome creation?

That its words are just prophecies, and the man is for the actions...?

Or maybe it's just a mere intricate text,

Being unsure of what is next?

Maybe squandering your desired effects...?

But somehow, it could alter those weakly nights

That it's for you to scrutinize its plausible insights

Every word might have that effect,

Toward something that can hardly detect.

All of us might confirm,

That poetry is such a complex wonder

I may be the one who warped all of these scattering stanzas;

However, I'm still here, wondering what kind of treasury did I already write!

And with all of these leaking facts, I speak like a narrator

Whichever it will lead, I could also perceive like some sort of a re-reader

To which I take a glimpse and contemplation from what I saw,

And with that, this is the poetry's main fault!

Yet that's what emerges another thought— how all of these affect me that much?

And one thing's certain... it would wipe off everything—

To all the days, to all those heartbreaking weeks, to all of those mistaken smiles, those frowns, those anger— everything!

Whether it is all about love, nature, religion, family, or even you,

It would all slowly falter, replacing it with something affable and new.

And for you to choose—

To equip its vast ability to conceive

If you didn't, then no change has taken place,

Yet maybe that'll be such an unwanted disgrace.

So tell me— what is poetry?

A rhythmic, flowery hymn?

A full-blown, melodic futile?

A certain prophecy for you to do?

A most shared input?

Or maybe that perfect tool for your unintentional blues?

It's quite a silly thing to state, but maybe it's none; poetry is just simply poetry

It has a title, some stanzas, and a lexical fluidity—

An entry in which it might get infested with lots of archaic statements,

With beautiful imageries and other elements.

I know; all of those recent questions were all useless if it's not one of those,

But hear me out— I may be wrong!

Maybe poetry is a rhythmic, flowery hymn!

A full-blown, melodic futile!

A certain prophecy for you to do!

A most shared input!

The perfect tool for your unintentional blues!

All of these— somehow it's all correct...

But just for you to know,

It depends on you—

On how you even understand the word "poetry,"

For at least you grasped that wonted delivery.

But generally—

Poetry is poetry

With all of those rhymes and stanzas,

With that accustomed impact of a group of words,

Whether if it's a prophecy,

Whether if it would alter your dilapidating form,

Or even whether if it's from a phone or a book,

It is poetry; that's for sure!