Poetry

Angela threw her bag onto the couch. Plopping down beside it, and laying back.

“What’s wrong, good buddy,” Viper said from her spot in the office chair.

“I had a poetry class today. I can’t write a thing. I don’t understand it.” Angela said. Reaching into her bag for a snack.

“You’re probably approaching it the wrong way.” Viper started spinning the chair around. Abandoning the work open on her laptop.

“Oh, I forgot. My roommate is a poet, artist, novelist, and just good at everything.” Angela groaned. Lying down, and shoving a cookie in her mouth.

“Wrong again good buddy. Knowing dihydrogen monoxide is water, doesn’t make me a chemist. Knowing the formula for poetry doesn’t make me a poet.” Viper stopped spinning. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees. “You will learn the technical bits, and applying that can make for good poetry. Great poetry, however, comes from something else.” Viper reached down, grabbing a notebook. She tossed it onto the couch beside Angela.

“A novel builds. You build your emotions for it. You learn to have feelings over time, but poetry is made of feelings.” Viper leaned back in her chair while Angela looked through the notebook.

“A lot of this is really bad.” Angels snickered at Viper’s attempt at poetry.

“Hell yeah it is, but you still feel my emotion. You feel it, because that’s where they came from. You don’t have to think for your heart to know.” Viper laced her fingers behind her head. “You write what you feel, you’ll get it right every time.”