As I set out to write
Slicing pieces of life
Little by little letting go

The use of my pen
Is like chisel in hand
Chipping away at my soul

I hold a sculpture knife
In which to carve out my life
Leaving my heart well exposed

The art of poetry
Is pure beauty to me
Of which this artist has no control

I paint what comes to my mind
Straying outside of the lines
It's the only kind of poetry I know