To be a poet Is not to burn the paper with your words but to be heard when drifting smoke of love and life is gone the poet in us carries on when ink and page and pen are embers it is the beauty one remembers
And what about the liars Who whisper in our ears Shadows in the corridors Envy in their stare's Evil eyes awatching Wishing wicked things I can feel them Crawling across The dirt of all our Graves