Poetry. Poetry is an art, an art that improves only upon practice.

Some are born with a gift, you say. The gift of bringing words together with a tenderness and sweetness, that the reader easily understands and feels what it is the poet is trying to say. But what, truly good, is that gift without practice? How shall one even know if he or she should possess a gift without practicing it first? Therefor, art itself is a gift, given only to those who practice it, and appreciate it, and take it.

Yes, I agree, some are more talented than others, and yet again more passionate, but all hold in common one small thing; a difference that cannot be matched. No two artists are the same, so why compare? What one holds beautiful, the other tosses away. What one considers priceless, the other considers a waste of time. Why do artists dwell on pleasing an audience, by throwing away or re-writing the masterpiece that was already made? While instead they should enjoy what was created and share it with those who are dear to them.

Poetry is an art, an art that improves only upon practice. I have practiced poetry in the past, some of you may have received a Valentine with one of my “Roses are red, Violets are blue” poems that were quickly written. But, however quickly written they were, I was still granted a smile, a hug, and even a few tears.

Poetry. It is a gift I have decided to take, not only for myself, but to share with those that are dear to me.

Poetry. It is a pleasantry that I enjoy practicing, only hoping that you enjoy reading. For I will not re-write for your pleasure, if I did, it would not be mine.

Written by Rayleigh Gray


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