Whoever said that the eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never seen
a set of poetic hands.

As they tumbled
syllables into songs
like waterfalls
roaring a powerful
“Hallelujah.”

Hands drenched in blood
decorated with scrapes and bruises
grasping for memories long repressed.
Memories only brought back
when their pen grazes the
inviting blank canvas before them.

2 o’clock in the morning
crying to no one in particular
as their heart slowly
but however, beautifully
bleeds onto the canvas,
crinkled around the edges
because it’s taken awhile
to get these words out.

Whoever said that they eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never gotten a glimpse
of the complexity that is
a poet’s mind.

Minds crammed with the
hurts of yesterday,
the dreams of tomorrow,
and the change they wish to bring about.

Different experiences call certain memories
from subconscious to conscious
as their dreams slow dance with doubt.
And their ideas for change
are wasted on ears
filled with fingers of ignorance.

Still they press on, in a
beautifully, depressing battle
of desire versus dejection.
Hoping a single phrase
will strike the ear
of someone who needed to hear it.
And touch
the heart of someone who needed to feel it.
Because the potential to reach
the unwilling,
the unable,
and the unwanted,
is worth the uphill struggle.

Whoever said that they eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never experienced
the power of a poetic heart.

Hearts strong with experience,
but cautious because of it.
The unrelenting beat
as it is used, stepped on,
and thrown away.
Do you hear it?
Ringing in your ears.
Unable to escape from
it’s heartbreaking
melody of “what ifs”
and “if onlys.”
Hiding behind
walls of regret
and instances of deceit
where it was once stolen.
911 was called,
but they were
cardiac arrested
for allowing this break in to occur.
An accessory to their own pain.

Whoever said that the eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never met
a poet.