Be it Ever so Blue

What is this thing with poetry, I wonder?

How come I write it only when I am feeling blue? It's as if a part of the brain never gets called upon to perform, except to provide "profound" expression of the raging violence inside. Is prose more serene than poetry, perhaps? Is it more regimented, and thus, indicative of stability? I really don't know.

I have read poetry that is serene. However, I have never read poetry that promises never to break out. I guess part of the speciality of poetry is its promise to break out. The hope, that at perhaps the very next instant, we shall break out; reach out and be able to grasp that which we crave.

Poetry is Promise. Be it ever so blue.

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