Happy World Poetry Day to all my fellow poets out there. My poetry would never have gotten a voice without the support of a few of them. Dedicated to tanuandchamp The_Dweeb THinvisibleQuill
EverSinceNever phoenix_MB23

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When the mind is stimulated
With the beauty of the nature,
Then springs poetry from you,
Like a little sapling struggling,
To break the soil and raise its head,
Opening the tiny green leaves,
Leaves of freedom,
Leaves of a hope to escape,
From the dreary world around,
And thus erupts poetry from the mind,
Sometimes like the mighty waterfall,
That shatters everything on its way,
Or like the gentle spring,
Which gurgles its way through the forest,
Murmuring its verses
In tunes of the rocks.

When the hands of friendship,
Extends into your life,
Or the arms of a lover,
Encircles your existence.
Or the world stops for a bit,
To appreciate and applaud you,
Your voice speaks in the words,
Of a language foreign to most,
A language unappreciated by some,
The language of poetry.
It exists in the little haikus
Or the stolen verses from songs,
The little things you write,
Your heartfelt wishes to your love,
Or even a single line composed,
With all the truth in your heart.

When the miasma of despair,
Hangs heavy in the air,
Or the memories of the past,
Cleave apart your senses.
When the world turns its back
And the love seems elusive.
When the only thing that matters,
Fails to honour your presence.
When it feels like it's all about to end,
When you feel like a kid lost in the fair,
When you struggle to discover,
Your inner self but fail nevertheless.
When the delicate heart is hurt,
With the the knife of deception,
Then bleeds poetry from the soul.

Poetry lies in your smile,
Poetry hides in your tears.
Poetry blossoms in your love,
Poetry cries in your hate.
Poetry creeps into your failures,
Poetry reigns in your victory.
Poetry is that universal force
That reaffirms that we're humans still.
Poetry is getting lost,
And dear poets, you need to,
SAVE your poetry and never ever,
Let a day come when no voice
Will chant in the lines of poetry.
When poetry will just be a memory,
In the old faded pages of some book,
Lying in the dusty corner of an unused library.

Poetry is born from that feeling,
The feeling of completeness,
The feeling of uniqueness,
The feelings of being a master
If your own mind where you reign,
And your fortune that you dictate.
Poetry speaks in the voice
Of the downtrodden,
In the voice of the wronged,
The voice of the crippled,
The voice of a child,
The voice of the dying,
The voice of the dead.
The voice of the voiceless.
One little request to you all,
Don't let that voice die.

A/N Hope you like it. Don't forget to drop your views everyone!