I the poet,
Is in need of speech,
In need of great,
Artistic hands.
In need of everything,
Except my own heart.
That is failing me,
That is my weakness.
I the poet,
Can’t utter words,
Or put them together,
To make me feel strong.
To fathom the way I feel,
Through music, through art,
Through theatre, poetry,
The creativity in my mind.
I the poet is need of answers,
To continue to write,
Instead of expressing myself,
Only to lurk after the answers.
Time will make me wait,
This I do understand,
They say time heals all wounds,
But my wounds are being reopened.
I the poet then,
Then question the undoing,
The reopening of,
A weak and bleeding heart.