Poetry.

I can be a mean rhymer,

Not an old-timer,

But at least,

A progressing amateur.

I've always had an affinity,

To the things written on paper,

But I never really could find a definition,

To this thing we all call poetry.

If rhyming is its sanity,

I'm grateful for vocabulary,

If feeling is the way to go,

Be assured that its origin is from within.

Meet me in the sentences,

Where you make play on words,

And where you find your solace,

In hidden riddles inconspicuous.

The puns, the paradox, the treasure, 

In a poem,

To me, 

Are like hidden gems.

When you see it,

You keep it to yourself,

Never to be sure of its true message,

But to you, a personal revelation,

Until you ask the author herself.

This is,

The beauty of a written piece;

Its mystery belongs to all,

But its answer, to you alone.

But still,

What is this,

Called poetry?