The beauty of poetry

Having fallen in love with poetry over the last few years, I have begun to recognise the beauty and strength that it holds. Writing my own poetry has offered me a sense of emotional release and accomplishment; an unclouded entry into my mind and feelings for anyone who reads it. From a literary point of view, the beauty lies in the structure, editing and sophistication that goes into quality poetry, however I feel that the more your feelings are edited, the further they are from the truth. Carol Ann Duffy agrees with this idea, stating that “The minute you decide to write a poem you are making artistic and technical decisions about rhyme and form and structure. Each one of those decisions pushes it away from the personal and makes it an artwork.” As respectable as the process is, I feel that my own poetry should represent my full emotions as a creative outlet in times your words cannot be expressed in any other way. This is why my own poems below may not be structurally and technically perfect, but I believe that this is where the beauty lies.



A million fireflies swarm beneath my skin,
Simmering through my veins,
Causing me to burn.
Unbearable sores creep from my
Lustful fingertips,
To my sweltering heart,
Awaiting your cool touch.


Suffocation turns to safety,
The humid air wraps itself around me,
As you serenade me with reassurance.
Hints of melody consume our bodies,
Curing any doubts,
Which usually creep up my throat
When passion furies through me;
Yet you have taught me to
Swallow and embrace.
Dazed minds promote vulnerability.
Seventeen muscles tirelessly ache.
I am consumed.


A choir of leaves sing to the sapphire sky;
Looking past its artificial happiness,
To rid its sombre tone,
Reflected through puddles,
Dispersed along the concrete cracks.
The feather impact of a bird’s weight
Creates endless ripples among the sea of residue;
Chirping restlessly to find their lovers.


As the man who created the half of me
Which swelters and burns with passion,
You have no right to put me down
For that very reason.


When you begin to feel unwelcome
In the house you call a home,
Make a house out of your bones,
And a home out of your heart.


The fact that I exist astounds me.
It tugs and screams and tears at my core,
And the notion of reality is little compensation
For the dreams that rise from my soul.


The numbness that takes hold of you
Will turn into shocks of electric,
When someone earns the privilege
To make you feel alive.

Beth X


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