The poet has eyes.
Eyes which have seen the  darkness  that lies in all of us,
and the lies that all of us have hid in the darkness.
The poet's eyes are scarred.
This is what makes a poet.

The poet has hands.
Hands which are wrinkled, with deep grooves and signs of pain and age.
These hands have changed the world around them, shaping it positively and negatively.
These hands are rivers, allowing words and sentences to flow into the ivory sea of paper.
These hands have labored.
This is what makes a poet.

The poet has ears.
Ears which have the poet wishes was sealed with stone, for much hurt and criticism has come through these ***** of skin.
The blunt message of an online bully.
The argument where someone who was dear to the poet left in anger.
The straight-up insults that hurt so much not because of the malice in them, but the truth in them.
However, the poet has kept his ears open, because much joyous sounds have wafted through these.
A baby's first cry.
A mother's words of support.
A lover's romantic invitations.
The poet has heard all of these.
This is what makes a poet.

The poet has a brain.
The brain which births ideas in the deepest troughs of its convulsions.
These ideas are made of pure, volatile energy.
They are dancing flames, igniting feelings and illuminating a poem so that it shines like a beacon in the blackness of oblivion.
The brain provides the poet to breath his own poetry, and live on it and feel like it's the only drug the poet needs to save his life.
This brain keeps the poet insane, content, and alive.
This is what makes a poet.

I was once asked, "What do you feel about dancing?"

I feel that dancing is an art.
No, more than an art.
Art is but visual, dancing has *passion

For nine months he never knew.
For nine months he never cared.
He was undeserving of the gift of children,
And he was undeserving of his wife.
A heated argument was all it took to start up the court.
Cogs turned in the lawyers. Gears groaned in the witnesses.
Finally, the judicial algorithm decided to give the child to the mother.
He lay as broken as the bottles beside him.
His soul as lost as his career.
Falling into an open void, he could not escape from the gaping maw of depressed solitude.
He felt he loved her, yet his time to show that was over.
Some things in life should not be ignored.
Love those close to you.

There comes a moment in life when we realize the truth.
We realize that governments were set up for order, yet are the cause of our chaos.
We learn that life is a game of Russian roulette, where death spares no one.
We find that there are lies that keep us in the dark, even though we need the light.
We grasp that love is like a child, fickle in whose wishes it grants and how long it keeps people together.
We come to the point where we question what we have learned, because we are left dull and unknowing.
We then see that the truth is like a lie, evading us at every corner, then stinging like a wasp when found.

I find it funny.
I find it funny that we hate everything that loves us,
Then love someone that cannot love back.
I find it funny how we give advice to people who won't need it,
Yet we can't take that advice for ourselves.
I find it funny how we cry ourselves to sleep at night,
Over things we forget in the morning.
I find it funny that we call ourselves human,
When it is only us who creates monsters.
You know, I find it funny writing this,
Because I am guilty for everything.

I lived a short life.
But with you, it felt like an eternity.
Every moment with you:
Happiness of a child who learned how to tie their shoes.
Ecstasy of a drug that's stronger than *******.
Joy of a father who was reunited with a lost daughter.
Glee of a homeless man who won the lottery.
Every moment without:
Sadness of a child who cannot afford shoes.
Depression of a man who is addicted to *****.
Sorrow of a daughter that is lost without her father.
Melancholy of a beggar whose money goes to lottery tickets, not food.
But, if I were one of those people, it wouldn't matter if I had you.
I know from the moment I touched your hand, and I felt a million chains of burden break within me, that you are the only girl I'll ever need.
(coughing) Remember the night Shirley invited me to her party?
Well, that night, we danced like foxes playing in the woods, never taking a break to talk or drink.
She told me that she loved me after we danced.
She tugged on my shirt, hellfire in her eyes, and told me she was taking me home.
I said no.
I tore myself from her like shrapnel separates from a bomb.
I took my car, and drove home.
I did it for you baby.
Because when I look in your eyes, I see the mother of my baby.
I see the dates we could have. I see the times we could spend looking at the stars and being together in my rusty old car, listening and laughing at the radio men.
But we can't have those anymore.
Baby, I would give up all that I had just to spend one more night with you.
One night where I can tell you more about my love for you.
And how I love how your hair falls behind you.
And how I find your laugh to sound like the giggling of cherubim.
And how I find you to be more perfect in your imperfections.
I want to say that to you...
But... it looks like I already have...
I... love you... like a husband... loves his wife...