It’s poetry. Everything is poetry. Everything that you can see, hear, smell, or touch – it is all a poem. Words are the murderer of feeling, for they cannot be felt, only heard. But poetry is art, and art is anything that is felt by the heart. Be it sun, be it snow, be it dark or things that glow, any picture of the earth is a certain poem. Any song, fast or slow, is a perfect verse of poetry. Your green eyes, her rosy lips, those strong arms, and those curvy hips. The smell of a storm, sea spray and foam, the smell of your letters, wet paintings, and home. All of these compose a a new poem, the lines of our lives, lived out to the last, and read, often, a little too fast. So slow down, take the slow lane. Watch the scenery, not the road signs, counting how many miles are left. Watch the clouds grow, smell the sweet rain, remember that your life is a gift. Sit in the subway, but don’t take the train. Watch the people walking so quickly, and wonder where they’re all going, what they have to do, and what it means to you. Write a poem. Not by paper and pen, but simply by taking all of it in. You could use every word in existence, and find a few to repeat, but no combination would ever say the right thing. Life itself is a poem – the only poem worth living.