By Carlota Vásquez
The blank page taunts me,
Yet here I am, about to try again
For the thirtieth, fortieth,
One hundredth time.
And now that I’ve begun, I realize
That only by recurring to metaphors
Can I hope to describe poetry
To someone other than a poet.
To painters: words are like colors
As you splash them on your canvas
Without knowing how it will look like
When you put the paintbrush down.
To musicians: music soars through the air,
whilst poetry
Soars through the dusty corners
Of twisted, crazy thoughts.
To mathematicians: I don’t know.
Poetry might make sense to you.
If so, I must congratulate you.
Mathematics certainly don’t make sense to me.
To the reader: whoever you are,
You’ve got a poet in you, slumbering,
Crouched up right behind your heart
And against your rib cage.
Can you feel them, or better, hear them?
Their mutters echo in your heartbeat;
Listen close, write them down, word by word,
And you’ll have written a poem.
About the writer:
Carlota Vásquez was born in Bogota, Colombia, in 2005. She has been writing since age seven, and she has been doing so in English since age 12. She is currently a high school student, as well as a hard-core feminist and an aspiring fantasy writer.
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