The ability to write poetry is the ability to understand life
To know it's not always about being the best
That it's not always about who can do what
Poetry is emotion
It is the silent words that lurk in our minds
It is our unsaid weaknesses exploited to their full potential
Which then makes it our strengths
It is the bridge that connects us to the mortal world
It is the proof that we are human
That we can cry
That we can laugh
That we can have remorse...
To us poet it is so much then just words on a piece of paper
It is our heart and our pride
As poets we all have our reasons why we write
Because we all come from our different backgrounds
Some of us have lost sight of the light
Other bath in it
There are even some who sit upon the border because they can't make up their mind
But as poets we all have one thing in common
We write because we are not immortal
We write because poetry is our life
We write because  poetry is our hope
And if we didn't have it we'd all be in a different place
Most likely a place beyond darkness
Even if the reason we write is joy
What's the point of being happy if everyone else is not
So we write to share
That's what it means to be a poet

True happiness;
It comes from pancakes on a Sunday morning,
Holding hands while we walk.
It emerges over coffee in the mornings,
Creeps in with movies late into the night.
It is walks in the woods on an October afternoon,
Comes from long talks before bed.
It is love when you are unlovable,
Feeling rich when you are poor.
It is friendship that never wavers,
It is simpler to find than you believe.

Listen to my heart whimpering
As I write to you from its broken melodies
The only memory I have from you.
Songs that lack rythm in your absence
Can't seem to embody my current expressions
As nakedness revolts through my reality
And reminds me of all those scars
That paints my body with dead colors of autumn.

Listen, to the song repeating itself in my head
Like the abandoned vinyl still playing
After a suicide
Yes, suicide.
A suicide that our love has committed
In the land of hopes and dreams
Where the music never spoke again
But remained as a beautiful memory
That completes the painting.