Poetry

A wordsmith has a license to kill
With tiny words in sequence
Little projectiles that traverse
From parchment to the ensheathed

Poetry was always about ballistics
The barrels that load and fire
Gunpowder and death

And when you die, it is as good as an orgasm
You don’t make sounds though. Just a perfect silence
The heart in adagio, and your sensation expands
And a little firework erupts on the tip
Of a little organ called the anterior insula

And a little fluid bursts out
The dope of dopamine, fixing you
To an aesthetic high. And that little addiction
Becomes a raison-etre, a means to a living.

And life is not about what car you drive
Or how big your house is. It is all about small
Words powering your existence.

And love of words is as addictive as an alkaloid.
It becomes your choice of freedom.
When little photons enumerate the retina
And saturate a little remote organ

We poets call it arousal.