The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.

The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.

The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto

Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.

It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its

Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.