She talked about my poetry all the time
And she was my poetry all about

                                     ~Andy~

A poets heart,
Is a very deep well
It holds many secrets,
Some we never tell

We speak in rhymes,
Or metaphors
We write of hope for the future,
Or sadness gone before

We are guilty,
Of feeling things too deep
And pondering secrets,
Life its self has to keep

Poets see things clearly,
That others cannot
We wonder about questions,
Which time, has forgot

A poets heart,
Beats at a different pace
A poets pen,
Defies time and space

We poets,
Create our own written place
We poets,
Are together, our own race

As poets,
We stand apart
And live in the deep well,
Of our poetic hearts

Listen to the silence...
As it consumes every fragment of your being,
Listen as it gets louder,
Bleeding eardrums with its power.
It's melodically hypnotic, it demands to be heard, really listen.
You have no choice.
Listen to the screams of a friend  that has no voice.
Between the pause to catch a breath the unsaid thoughts bellows in mute.
You can't hide from something so invasive,
It's like surgery,
It exposes you.
It leaves wounds that take too long to heal.

He watched her smile transform into sadness
He witnessed her happiness fade,
it used to be so bright, so authentic...
now its all fake

Stormy clouds follow her,
the doubt thickens in her heart, strong enough to cause it to stop.
She began to fall in love with a void,
where the emptiness of a room is relatable.

Chuckling, she reasons with the irony, of how being in emptiness almost fills a space.
But he continues to help everyone else but her..