When is it the right time
To open the closet door
To look in on a journey paused
To risk the truth and find
Boxes taped up with angry haste
Adventures stifled within four walls

When is the right time
To sit with the papers, the moments, the times
To make the decisions
To be brave in the face of pain and find
Cherished moments stuffed haphazardly away
Flashes of beauty smothered by a storm

When is the right time
To laugh, to cry, to hate, to mourn
To acknowledge the truth
To risk the unpredictable path that leads to
A heart ready, open for healing
And a closet - with room for someone else

i wanted to write a poem,
but didn't know where to start.
with a
striking sentence maybe or
a word from the heart.

because sometimes, writing could be difficult
when your head is nothing
but an echo of a myriad mess,
like untangling strings of blurred words
just so you would d r o w n less.

and i wish to ask those poets
who could write so hauntingly.
crimson hearts tattooed on paper
souls for the world to see.

but then, poetry would never judge,
it'll just call, saying:
' darling, your emotions crave me
grab a piece of paper
to set yourself free. '




'i want to write a poem
pencil on hand, an old paper from my bed stand
sits empty
for wherever should i begin?'


i still don't know.

Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again

I was not born a

poet.

I was broken into

one.


*Sandoval