Poetry Essay

I wrote this in my notebook some months ago and forgot it, thinking the world didn't need more of my philosophizing.

Not that I mean
to write an essay on the matter but
observe the way
I arrange the words
tumbling down the page
slowly
and how
when read aloud
they are spoken
in measures
and pauses.

There is no reality
in a poem, the words have
no bold
truth:
it sneaks in,
through the gaps,
reveals itself
in little ways
then covers
the evidence
of its existence.

Author's Note

I don't really like it, but I did it. It's done.