I woke today with a thought in mind,
a thought so real I was all but blind.
The feeling that crept in while my body was sleeping,
and left my emotions alone and seeping
through the cracks in my fingers, and my pencil weeping.
Though the poet means well, even though he hates that title,
he lives in a shell, and thoughts still vital.
And to rhymes and lines and pages, yet still
the poet finds himself with a hole to fill.
A hole, now large, from pieces taken in past,
and to fill this hole, alone, is no easy task.
The poet remembers, these feelings will last, though passed,
making hard to believe these thoughts from the cracks.
And though he means it, but can't always show it,
the best intentions are those of the poet.