My blood is black
I bleed ink
My heart is beating faster
My soul is swollen of words unspoken
My veins are leaking
My room is full of ink
Spilt
On mirrors and windows
Punch lines and metaphors
Roaming around
Nightmares of ink floods
Painting alliterations and rhymes
All over my walls
Vivid pictures painted in words
The image remains clear in your mind
Felt deep in your heart
Asking my soul rhetorical questions
Ink flowing down my eyes
I cry
I spit figures of speech
In poetry silence is a cliché
Perfection doesn’t exist
Poetry is my Philosophy
My religion my spirituality
This piece is a plea
Which shall set my soul free
I write from the heart
I write and voice out
My thoughts and feelings
My blood vessels contains ink
I’m a poet
It is written in my face’s skeleton
With fourteen bones
I’m a sonnet
The DNA test says
My genes are of the
Offsprings of Don Mattera
Maya Angelo and William Blake
Soon I will physically perish in your eyes
But I will always be there
When the world needs me
You will find my life, my soul
My dreams lying in a page full of ink
Because poets don’t die
Authors don’t die
All writers don’t die
They live forever
And I was born one of them
I was born an artist