Kiss, I miss.

Love, I am.

The poet's journey starts and begins.

Alone and well thought, by the end spent and wasted on time that would've been better spent creating concrete thought over paper tigers.

Words on a page are as sharp as swords, provided they're seen by the right eyes to evoke the emotion.

Snake, I am.

Kiss, I miss.

Words I mine.
Emotion I craft

and yet with all this power I am nothing.

I am man, mortal and small in the grand scheme of the ticking clock.

Tick tock, and so I wade into the river, drown my sorrow.

Drown, I am.

Words in stone are set to last, words of sand are set to change, words of paper may burn, words whispered are lost to sound.

Blood, I write.

Fool, I am.