What is inspiration?

Is it the emotions singing melodies of melancholy tunes in your heart when he looks away?

Is it the facsimile look when the people you love most leave undone?

Is it the circle of nature passing by, unperceived changes, abandoning seasons left at the door of your year?

Is it the thoughts of flare seething to the point of an outburst?

Is it random comments you recieve of kindness, passed around in the hallway?

Is it the questions you ask yourself that scientists or philosophers haven't thought about yet?

Is it the tears that randomly run down your cheeks, meaningless spurring a whirlwind of verses combined into a poem?

Inspiration is the feeling when you feel effected,
Hurt,
Or questioned,
That make you pick up a pen and form words into a piece of art.
This art,
The most sophisticated of its kind,
is literature.
It is the flow of the river bend passing by my feet,
It is the petals falling down, crowning my love for you,
It is the contagious mix of words that form a smile,

It is poetry.