I suppose

I suppose
it could be said
that
everyone lives life
behind a wall--

shut in and shut out;
that's just how
it goes.

And if
that's so, the question
is--
did we build the wall, or
did others?

And if
it was us, why, and
how high
should it be
and who given
the key;

And if
it was others, how, and
why so high--
and does the key
belong to them
or me?

But yet
does not the wall
protect, not
just exclude? Encircling
us like a cozy feather
boa--
unless they squeeze
too tight.

Poetry is the facet of writing to which I've devoted the least of my time. I did a fiction track in college; now, looking potentially at getting an MFA, I find myself ignoring programs' poetry scores altogether. When I want to express myself, I don't sit down to write a poem; when I'm feeling creative, my creativity almost always runs in the fiction or non-fiction bent.

(This is undoubtedly evident in today's poor showing.)

BUT, I was in a free verse sort of mood, and with no particularly interesting tidbits of nonfiction for you today, and without yet having found a way to incorporate fiction in a blog setting, I thought you might appreciate a momentary departure from the norm. And poetry (when done right, NOT as I have done) can be moving, rich, and absolutely wonderful to read--so I thought I'd pay a poor tribute to it today.