For me, poetry has done what I can’t really explain:
I have written much of it and it has sung my pain.
Through anything else, I find my emotions falling flat;
speaking clearly and concretely were things I just didn’t get.

Sometimes I cried but couldn’t say what was wrong.
Sometimes I would shout but it felt better in song;
at times I lost and didn’t know if I could win,
but saying as much felt like an unbearable sin.

So instead I turned to em dashes. Periods. Prose.
Then after a while my love for poetry rose;
how so little words could express so much
with just repetition and pattern, commas and such.

I looked to my page as if it were a mirror;
when I wept, my words made my feelings clearer,
when I raged, I punched at the metaphorical glass
until stanzas were amidst my notes in class—

One Art. One Art.
It is not of losing.
One Art. One Art.
It is actually about using 

your pain like the pen, mightier than the sword that struck you
your suffering like the paper, which you will peer through
in tens or hundreds of drafts to try and understand
the emotions and shards that you have at hand.

In “19 Lines That Turn Anguish Into Art”,
Elizabeth Bishop writes about disaster.
After 14+ drafts she finally can start:
“The art of losing isn’t hard to master.”

What is more amazing than her mastery of loss
is, in my opinion, her transposing of thoughts.
Through the pain we see an artificial beauty,
born only through a common cruelty.

We face loss nearly everyday.
If we want to,
we can see it as art.