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A hand must wield the weighty might of the pen,
Crimson cascades forth, each a drop of words,
In this rhythm and rhyme – all that is given then
The poet does not summon muses from memory,
Rather, the fingers recall the melodies of their chords.
To grasp the myriad truths said; there lies a handful,
A place of dreams, love, and the echoes of pulses to a life-
A mind a citadel, imprisoning thoughts so dreadful,
The heart, a slender arrow, sharp and precise, seeks
To carve its mark as keen as a knife.
The body, is only but this bag of flesh, it cradles bones,
All desires, chaotic emotions, and endless sensations.
A soul, mere fragments of timeless dust, the fabric of stars.
To exist as the poet, is battling every fragment of self,
While constantly wrestling with their own creations,
My art embodies beauty, longing, loss, triumph, anguish,
And the masterpiece forged from my many scars.
