A page full of monotonous words
False metaphors
And contradictory statements
A seemingly endless run-on sentence
With no value to anyone who reads it
But is brought to life by the writer
Her brainchild
Her pride and joy
A work of art that means nothing
This is why poetry is meant for the artist alone
For in its raw form
It is a mass of cross outs, arrows, and misspelled words
That only the poet could fully realize
Meanings lost in translation
Allusions unseen by the unaided eye
Amounts of passion felt by each and every reader
That could not possibly equal the whole that was put into it
We share with the world
Hoping someday it might understand
If it reads enough
Analyzes enough
But it won't
Because in the end, poetry is not for the world,
It is for the poet