Who are you?
The you we keep writing about,
We- the poets; poets around the world,
Across time immemorial and
space immeasurable,
We write about you,
We shape your skeleton
With the strength of all the pain
We've borne, and we sculpt your flesh
With the wistful beauty of our tears,
We bring you to life with our words
Make them course through your body
Like blood,
Who are you?

The cry of our first heartbreak?
The joy of a lover's return?
The stunning silence of absolute loneliness?
Of turmoil and torment, the stinging burn?

You're all of the above,
and more- profoundly more,
You're a piece of every poet's heart,
Infinite power, immense emotion,
You are the cumulative of every drop of blood
The poet has shed through their pen
You are the story that stays stifled inside
the confines of paper, until someone comes along
And unlatches your locks,
Absorbs the burden of the poet's grief,
And at that moment, brings you to the form in
which you had been intended to be.

It is then, that you, the very essence,
the very soul of the poet,
Can take flight, blissfully relieved,
When you are read, your creator is finally free.