Fluff.

What is poetry?
Poetry is blue, poetry is the trees swaying in the wind of the great outdoors.
Poetry is a cat licking its fur.
Poetry is the lonely man on the corner watching a family from afar.
Poetry is a bright green balloon floating into the atmosphere that was once loved by a 5 year old boy only moments ago.
Poetry is anything you feel, whenever you feel it, however you feel it.
Poetry is the feelings we feel that we once thought could not be verbalized.
Poetry is fluff.
What isn't poetry?
Poetry isn't evil or morose or shameful.
Poetry isn't afraid. Poetry isn't a tool used to hurt.

Are you afraid? You may not be poetry matieral, if so.
You may wonder what a feeling even is.
Poetry is feeling.
"A Poet's brain is the ultimate brain"
"A poet shall not spend his time in unneeded work"
"Obedience does not master him, he masters it"
(Whitman)
Whitman is crazy.
I feel lost in this giant giant world full of humans and animals and buildings and dirt. I feel lost because in comparison I am merely a molecule in this giant element.
I get tossed around like a floating bubble with no destination, nowhere to go, nothing to hold onto (or else I'll pop).
I feel like boredom is a lot like writing essays. Filler, fluff, filler, fluff. And repeat.
Boredom plagues us like a disease. Boredom has no clue, simply cover-up tactics. We are never not bored. Even when we're amused, deep down we're still bored. And we know it. When we are having the time of our lives, we are bored. Bored bored bored. Filler filler filler. Fluff fluff fluff.
Ideally the world would be at peace and every body would have a smile on their face and there would never be a reason for hurt. Ideal is out of reach. Ideal is no such thing.
Ideal is not real. Real is not ideal.

Today reminds me of a turtle trekking along through the thickest quicksand comprised of peanut butter. Nothing has gone slower.
Red is for sirens. Flashing, distracting, bright. Red.
Orange is for construction. Alert, warning, watch out. Orange.
Yellow is for yielding. Yield to walkers in the cross-walk. Yellow.
Green is for leaves. In nature, indoors, everywhere. Green.
Brown is for chocolate. Sweet, tasty, refreshing. Brown.
Purple is for lightning. Striking, startling, dangerous. Purple.
Blue is for skies. Open, fresh, never-ending. Blue.
Black is for hope. Always hoping to find a color in that black mass. Black.
There is a post card with a banana hanging on my wall. It made me laugh the day I got it in the mail. It was from my sister. She always has the best sense of humor. She always makes me laugh. Now that she sent me this banana post card, a part of me laughs every day. Thanks, sister.
Motorcycles driving by. Not even driving, but zooming. I really hate motorcycles. Drivers make me nervous because they wear the bare minimum required gear. I think all motorcycle drivers need to wear layers upon layers of leather. I don't care how hot it is, keep hydrated. You need a lot of leather to survive. Ironic, rely on a dead cow to save your life. But I'm a carnivore so it doesn't bother me personally.
They need to slow down. Everybody needs to slow down. We're all in such a hurry, it hurts. Hurry hurts. Zoom, zoom zoom. Everybody's flying by. But we can't even fly!
Traffic signs amuse me. Especially in Australia, where there are "kangaroo crossing" signs. I want to drive down Main street here and see a kangaroo hop across the street in front of me. I would surely yield, you can bet on that. I could never hurt a kangaroo. Or anything really. But a kangaroo is so much more interesting to watch cross the road than a damily of ducks. Although they are cute. Deer are the least fun animal when they are crossing the street. Usually they just hit your car and cost you thousands of dollars in damages and a life time of trauma. Mental trauma. Some people never get over things like that. You're driving along minding your own business and a deer suddenly comes out of nowhere and rams your car? The last thing you care about is the deer's well-being. Who cares about that living being when your precious Benz is dented to a crisp. Maybe it's not even the damage it cost you: maybe it's the damage it cost itself by ramming into your innocently driving car. You never meant harm to this deer. It did it to itself. Or maybe you feel guilty for not having left your house 5 minutes earlier because you couldn't find your favorite socks and yelled at your boyfriend for losing them.
Poetry is fate. Poetry is drama. Poetry is real.
Poetry isn't a joke. Poetry isn't fantasy.

Poetry is vitamins and minerals.

Some people need poetry to survive.
I don't know anybody like this. But I sure would like to meet them.
Poetry is books. But some books are useless. So poetry is not books.
I am still struggling to define poetry. Maybe it has no definition.


Wake up. Eat. Work. Sleep. Repeat.
Wake up. Eat. Work. Sleep. Repeat.
Wake up. Eat. Work. Sleep. Repeat.
Wake up. Eat. Work. Fall in love. Sleep. Repeat.
Wake up. Eat. Work. Break someone's heart. Sleep. Repeat.
Repeat repeat repeat.
As humans our lives are so mundane. But surely there's much more to living life than the repeat repeat repeat.
What else is out there? I am not smart enough to travel to space. I am not smart enough to invent a new, useful product. I hate math. I hate history. I don't understand economics. I am useless to this world.
How could humans have evolved to become so boring?
I bet that cave men had more fun than we do and they lived the simplest lives out of any type of "human-like" life there ever was. They invented the wheel and it ruined them. They tried to complicate things. They tried to be smart. They tried to evolve. Well they evolved and now they're gone. One day we will be too.

Poetry is cavemen.

Poetry is art. Art on the walls of an expensive museum. Art on the walls of an elementary school. Art on the walls of a brick building in form of graffiti.