These words are for me,
For I'm the one who's hurting,
I'm just healing myself.

Before words form
then fall, like rain
from the mind of a  writer
splattering a chaste page
There is no poem

Before the pieces
of someone's peculiar puzzle
are placed
precisely
on a page
There is no poem

Before the mind
of a reader
appreciates
something special
in a word salad
there is no poem

Before a reader
pretends to hear
sounds found
somewhere
between his ears
there is no poem

If I wrote poems in my dreams,
then I'd write in black and white

If I wrote poems in my dreams,
then I'd convey messages through silence

If I wrote poems in my dreams.
then my writing would hold knowledge it doesn't when awake

If I wrote poems in my dreams,
then you'd see a side of me that even I don't know

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

They will tell you
All poetry has been written
There is nothing new
Under the moon
But let me tell you
They don’t know you
You are as unique
As the DNA that exists
Within your frame
The ripples on your thumbprint
No one ever had the same.

Listen...

You have something to say
Say it proudly
Say it boldly
Never let them scold you.

Never let them make you go away.