Poetry is a lake.
People often sense it, but cannot dive into it.
They struggle with every stroke of their pencil.
They try to float on every piece of paper.

They drown within its complex metaphors.
They smell of the water is littered with the scent of creativity.
They see soft ripples of similes gently lap at the sandy shore line.
They hear light splashes produce the song notes of assonance.
They feel the temperature of brisk, cool consonance.
They taste the tangy, titillating flavor of alliteration in every drop.

Those colorful images are present with every blink of an amazed eye.
The rocks feel grey; the grass smells green; the birds sound blue.
The gust of word choice eerily whistles through the reeds on the bank.
Antidisestablishmentarianism is blocked; it seems quieted and unnoticed.
The damp soil of thought makes it possible for ideas to grow.

Mr. Poet comes from Britain to relax and advise you in this wondrous place.
But he never ever truly relaxes nor advises you, he only gives entrance to this place.
He expects you to know how to swim through your mind.
You must write what you can’t put on paper.
To truly be able to write you must be able to draw.
You must breathe the water deeply to understand.

Never judge a book by its cover, because it might be your own.
You will become invisible to yourself until you discover yourself.
Spaz tried everything with an open mind, but he couldn’t succeed,
Tomorrow will come and he will find that the answer lay before him.
Little elephants will carry him in a gold throne.

You will get your own answer when you stop trying to get one.
La problema no es la pregunta que es la persona que pide.
The lock of conformity will clap shut with immense strength.
The chain of confinement holds all the fluid waters of poetry.