A poet is no more than a person
A mother
A daughter
A lover  
Someone needing release
Or someone needing to recover


It’s the art they create when that ball of ink or stick of led dances on the canvas they so perfectly prepared.
And when the end result and their purpose become perfectly paired.

I wander through the dark mist of a place that no one else can see.
Each breath I take is my own; a tonic to the poison that is reality.
I shut off my ears and drift in the waters of my sadness.
The ache in my heart is the sextant that guides my journey.
This is a map of loneliness and I am the cartographer; forever designing worlds that no one else can enter;
Yet each night I cry myself to sleep wishing that someone would break through the veil that imprisons me here.

05DEC2019