By Carlota Vásquez

The blank page taunts me,

Yet here I am, about to try again

For the thirtieth, fortieth,

One hundredth time.

 

 

 

And now that I’ve begun, I realize

That only by recurring to metaphors

Can I hope to describe poetry

To someone other than a poet.

 

To painters: words are like colors

As you splash them on your canvas

Without knowing how it will look like

When you put the paintbrush down.

 

To musicians: music soars through the air, 

whilst poetry

Soars through the dusty corners

Of twisted, crazy thoughts.

 

To mathematicians: I don’t know.

Poetry might make sense to you.

If so, I must congratulate you.

Mathematics certainly don’t make sense to me.

 

To the reader: whoever you are,

You’ve got a poet in you, slumbering,

Crouched up right behind your heart

And against your rib cage.

 

Can you feel them, or better, hear them?

Their mutters echo in your heartbeat;

Listen close, write them down, word by word,

And you’ll have written a poem.

About the writer:

Carlota Vásquez was born in Bogota, Colombia, in 2005. She has been writing since age seven, and she has been doing so in English since age 12. She is currently a high school student, as well as a hard-core feminist and an aspiring fantasy writer.

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