I suppose it could be argued that poetry seems as a colossal waste of time and a fruitless expense of energy. What does it gain a writer to craft flowery limericks or a reader to encounter an edgy rambling?
Everything. The writer gains everything when she tears wide her heart and permits it to pour freely onto the pages before her. She commands self-expression, a moment of triumphant bravery in giving voice to her thoughts. She gains creative fulfillment, realizing the great power within her to speak design into being. And she finds freedom, bursting, finally, from the parliament of self-defeating doubts.
The reader, likewise, gains everything when he encounters skin-raising poetry. He feels the fire of inspiration stirring within him, motivating him to conquer what is yet unconquered. He finds beauty, an undeniable value to life and its countless expressions. And he finds freedom, with a mind expanded, a heart enlivened, and a soul enchanted.
Food and water might sustain life, but art, in its unrivaled power to unite a universe, is what makes it worth our while.
May our minds flourish with creation, and may our hands never deny its expression.