For a poet words are a tool. One of power, of love, of fear, of weakness, strength, and enlightenment. They are the method that runs a poet's own soul.

They hold the power of a heart for a poet to wield. A poet can expose, or shield, observe, morph sentiments at will, stay strong or yield.

But oneself is the truest victim in the abyss of a poets' mind..

Many live apart, amiss, at best stressed, always looking for light while filled with fright tired of fights.. Tired of walking emotional miles, they tread waters of commotion, heart decaying from life's erosion, yet still so outspoken, awoken yet dead, happy but we cry in our beds..

Some cannot live typically so cryptically we write, we fight, wrong or right anything to survive our past-ridden nights, over and over..

We write..
And..
We write..

We just want to feel ok