Words are always
Rearranged and rearranged
Scrambling
Manipulating words
Stating with conviction, firm
Purpose esteemed from my own heart
With no promise of anything to be earned
Sometimes my words are just for me
Unless others can similarly see
What I am trying to convey
For you to come with me
And stay

To portray alternate meanings
To explain our feelings
Words just come and go
As long as they make sense,
I suppose
Poems that could make sense to
No one else
Give meaning to myself
I shape the sentences in my own way
The things I can never actually say
Writing the words of my desires
Or just simply writing because I am tired
Sometimes I feel alone,
Just me, here,
One
Or my mind just wants to run,
Away without time to think
And my heart begins to sink
But these poems are a definition
Of me
Words that I have crafted
Within all the letters scattered
Upon the sea
At times I write with no clear direction
Or I choose carefully with painstaking
Selection

It is beyond me
How letters can transform
Into words, so free
Scrambling
I find it like some sort of game
How can I force my words without sounding
Lame
Sometimes I feel so loved
You, me, we
And I write to confess
That with you
I never feel anything less
And I state my fears
That one day I wake up
And you won’t be here

Poetry is my cries
The way I question all the whys
In life I perceive
All it takes is for you to
Believe
In the words that you read
And your soul can be freed
Scrambling
Like the rearrangement of words
Till you find some sort of meaning
Poetry makes life so less
Absurd
With simple rearrangement of
Words