Lifted From Descriptive Restrictions

What is this thing called poetry? Is it depictions... Of vignettes connected. Bridged between something said profound. Recited as a sonnet... With emotions sat upon it. Exciting enough to be passed around? Many try to describe poetry, With an intellect approach... Hoping to dull Diverse interpretations, With meters, tempo, rhyme And lines counted! Learned by rote and blurted. Regurgitated from memory! Can true poetry be defined without rhyme? Can thoughts unconnected but colorized, And flavored to moisten Be the choice... Of those who prefer their poetry moist? Even though uncomprehending, The meaning or intention of clues planted. Seeded by the writer Delighted to tease with mystery, sex Or emotional pain aimed at the reader! Can true poetry be defined, As heartfelt expressions Written to describe what then Is in one's mind. And who is to say there is a correct way To reveal what one has to say with or without rhyme. When those times come to pour a flow That arrives and awaits the rush. And thrusting that wish to be expressed as is! What is this? That has to find, Poetic lines. Requested or not! When all it wants to do, Is be delivered for what it is! Searching for an accepted way... In a style one owns, Like none other conveys... And lifted from descriptive restrictions, To expand the demands of understanding!