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.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC
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.
