The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.
The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.
The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto
Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.
It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its
Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.