why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

Maybe she was born.
Maybe.
Sometimes she doesn't know.
Because to be born,
you must first be alive.
And she isn't so sure
Anymore.

She was born into a land
of gold and riches and fame.
Into a world where she is
Just another soul.
1/6.8 BILLION

So who gives a ****?

But then they wrapped like
a blanket, tight-knit
over her.
Warm, thick,
she didn't deserve the comfort they
Provide.

So she became
1/5.
Because there are four other people on this
Miserable
Planet who love her
with a  love simply not
based on conditions or
destination.
A love based simply
on existence.

So the four watched her grow
from infant to toddler.
And then four grew to
five.
And the love didn't change.

Milestone by simple
Milestone
they watched her grow,
Removing the blanket
bit by bit,
Until one day,
it was
gone.

Hues of violet
As the azure meets the reddened sun
Sparse deflated clouds
Floated quiet as into each other, the colours run

Lavender streaks
Trail far into the horizon
Tracking the sunset
As the hour struck seven

Purple gladioluses
Bowed to the evening sea breeze
As if mourning the departure
Of the day's warmth with silent pleas

The orb finally sank
Beyond my sight could reach
Disappeared from here
But rising over someone else's beach

Last dregs of light
Slowly swallowed, giving birth to indigo
This night would last long
Before the first rays of tomorrow...