An art more than words painted across pages,
am I still a poet if I do not write?
Sounds and rhythm embedded on the papers,
am I still a poet if I cannot rhyme?
A canvas of colors or daubing of doom.
This a gift, or of pointless literature?

Way of words plays into our brains,
infects us with emotions-
to break a wall or stand up tall.
Take a trip down memory lane.

Fill the world up with saddened tears,
make the ground quiver and quake.
Maybe all of these intertwined,
now that is a great poet’s mind.

Tales and stories of limitless outcomes.
Like a maze leading to a blind alleyway,
or a simple serene stroll on a nice day.
And a little bit of everything combined,
sailing without routes, no captain to decide.
The path I chose just happened to save my life.