A poet never really stops writing,
only sometimes, we lose the strength to write it all down.

But when we write,
we spill our hearts upon the pages.
Every ink filled line,
giving full access to our minds,
for whoever dares to read them.

I apologize for the tears and blood stains,
sometimes my pen reveals too much.
As I close my eyes,
and my hand glides across the page,
my soul speaks to me in the best possible way.

If someone
does not want me
it is not the end
of the world
but
if I do not want me
the world is nothing
but endings

i couldn't be human
so i made a home
in the woods
i danced with the mist
and ran with the wolves.
i lay on the pine needles
wove leaves into my hair,
perhaps if you come looking
you will find me there.