Clouds poetry

Poetry what is it to y o u?

I was sitting one day on a green old couch
At my aunts house while she cooked In the
Kitchen with a spatula, the smell of spaghetti and fry dumplings floating in the air, I sat with a book
And a pen in my hands, writing and reading poems
Of my own and of good and underrated poets and poetess, scribbling and adding metaphors as I go my mind is a cascade flowing river.
Inspiration rise and bloom like a plant in a garden enough rain and enough sunlight, energy dripping
Out from it's skin like water, Silk fine wine.
My cousin runs towards me his little feet's shuffling and jumps on the Couch it sinks a little his body weight sits next to me puzzle, looking at the paper then me. Like a dear caught in head lights don't know what to do next or where to go. His little voice filled with curiosity, "why are you writing?" it's summer and we don't have school. Are you ...writing poetry?" he stopped and think for a second "what is poetry?" he says. scratching his left knee trying to tear off whatever skin and flesh of his bones left. I smiled and pages flipped inside my soul, poetry I repeat in my head well poetry–could be all of things, to me poetry is... a cold bath after a hot day, oil painting on a canvas that's left to dry, poetry is a color wheel to splash on ones and many black and white dull life. It's that one lyric in a song that makes you want to scream out your lungs, it's warm coffee a babies lullaby, it's release, tension, it's CPR oxygen to a human mouth to mouth, it's an escape breaking out from a cage like madman or an innocent child, it's the truth and fantasy make believe people, places dreams and love we wish or wished we had, it's a peaceful solitude but also a magical door a place for the givers the hopeless romantic, the introverts, The dreamers, storytellers, prisoners, Anyone who needs a place to dump their trash in, it's also a second heaven, for the writers and the readers, it's music from the ocean, and star dust from galaxies, it's a forgotten Polaroid or an old treasure chest, historical and now, it's the music that you dance to when know one is watching, it's a lost symphony somewhere in the clouds, it's the harsh reality that people chose to ignore, It's so much more than words on paper or ink on keyboards, yet I still, I smiled and laugh looking at my little cousin I pat his head like a little pup he is and replied "poetry," is words on a paper thoughts. I'm writing because am bored and don't really have anything else to do", I replied. dropping my hands from his head spinning the pen in between my fingers. Looking at him he still looked puzzled but his eyes Shawn with light replied back in his chipper up beat voice, "I'm going to write poetry too because am bored!" a soft laugh slipped out my lips cheerful and careful I handed him a little piece of paper and a pencil, "alright, write something".

-ashes poetry
A/N so I wrote a poem base on the question. I was writing and reading poems and my little Cousin came up to me and ask me "what is poetry?" I gave him a short answer instead, because one day I know he'll find out for himself, and find the meaning of what poetry means to him, the end in this short story is the beginning of a little boy putting his thoughts feelings and experience of the world on paper it's the only way he cope with life as he grows older. Anyway lol but the sun was so hot I had to look for a cool Shade under a star fruit tree to sit under, while I was writing this, stay hydrated folks this summer heat ain't playing.