In the quiet corner of my mind, there lies, A bustling bazaar where thoughts flirt and surprise, Chattering whispers weave, as ideas ignite— But poetry stands tall, bathing all in its light. With a tick-tock heartbeat, the clock softly hums, While words flit like fireflies, dancing, then come, Sparkling in twilight, like stars in the night, Each stanza a vessel, a sail catching flight. Oh, prose is a river, meandering slow, Rich with the currents of where it might flow, It croons its long tale, a gentle embrace, Yet bends to the banks, that confine it—in grace. But poetry’s tempest, a wild, swirling storm, Carves mountains from nothing, with passion so warm, It cracks like the thunder, with joy and with pain, Each line like a lightning strike—never mundane. With metaphor's magic, I wrap truths so neat, Like daisies in sunlight—each line feels complete, As similes shimmer, like diamonds in air, Where freedom and beauty entwine everywhere. Onomatopoeia sings, with a pop and a swoosh, It whispers of moments that hush and then push, Through pages that tremble, like leaves in the breeze, Each poem a treasure, a heart's gentle tease. So I can write a thousand things, echoing wide, With pages of stories that rise, fall, and glide, But in the grand mural where all voices hum, Poetry—my compass—will always be number one.