perhaps someday my poems will become better,
my writing will flourish, and my thoughts become settled.
til then I sit and write you this letter,
of how life can sometimes get you fed up.
the ink spilled through the fountain onto a foundation becomes darker,
the words that they create are those of the departed.
you sit in solice wondering what created this monster, trying to figure out what you just started.
a blank sheet of white covered in darkness,
when deep down inside you just wanted to feel as if you were heartless.
to feel what it's like to not feel at all,
so onto this canvas your well of creations fall.
realizing that what was vivid and bright
is now permanently stained by the sheltered broken words that were once in your brain.
your thoughts then try to figure if flames will suffice,
and so you put the sheet up to candle light.
hoping that the stained and destroyed sheet will demise.
but as you unfold it, the words cross your eyes
so you grab the well and the quill again just to write,
what everyone did and said to ruin your life.
and **** does it feel good,
it feels so right,
to put thoughts into words,
and those words into light.
and then you pause for a moment.
no more noise in your mind.
silence for once, everything feels fine.
and you look at your hands covered in ink.
you grab that paper as you read it and think.
these are your creations, and now you know it.
this is how the broken becomes a poet.
