The secret is that none can teach poetry,

You're born with it,
You're born from it.

It's like a cut on your heart
That will never heal,
That will never ill,
That cannot ****,
The blood will seal ,
into words so real,
To paint what you heal.
It is a thrill,
With it,
There's no heart you can't steal.

It can scab over,
But that can be cured with a stab.
It is not a fad,
Cat's out of the bag,
But it's not sad,
I showed you a gift you always had,
To break the curse with a blast.

Let your blood drip into the page,
Meditate over fields of sage,
It's the map to the maze,
The string to lift the haze.