Poetry 

is like a puddle. It 

only comes into existence

 after a storm of ideas, seeping into the 

page like droplets in dirt, many never to be seen 

again. Only after this storm has subsided may the poet 

peer with trepidation at their creation, witnessing 

a reflection of their innermost self. However, 

this reflection is never truly clear. It is 

always muddied, to some degree,

 by words themselves.