Obscurity is present in the poet's verbose art, Ink stained fingers prove more than a swift hand, For beneath the elegant, intertwined ideas, Lies a bleeding heart beating out each command. Scars and open wounds struggle to close, As the poet's inspiration continues to moan, Begging for release through written word, Overflow of the heart's desperate groan. A lack of genuine love, A murmured 'I love you' and a bruising hit, So much horror to experience, Too much crime to recieve and commit. There are cemeteries and battlefields, Graves to dig up after hours, The poet attends to them all, While the monsters glower. There is intrigue and love in that heart, First kisses and bare feet in sand, There are giggles and ice cream sandwiches, Hidden in each blackened hand. There is triumph and tragedy that forms us, As for me I am no different than the rest, I am a poet that swings her fists blindly, And of eloquence? I am not the best. Some poets could relate to my remote world, The thoughts I sweep under the bed, Monsters form from dust bunnies, Such thoughts I begin to dread. I dwell on lost oppurtunity, of the hatred in my past, Terrible words in my thoughts, that always seem to last. I want to scream and tear out my hair, I am not content to float, I feel like I am a sinking ship, Without a lifeboat. So I harness the words in my head, Pour them out through my pen, Not realizing what an atrocity I am, Lashing out at invisible men. When I am done, sweat beading, I look up and I know, That I have been screaming at ghosts, Lost in the past, I sink low. Deep in my chair, I crumple up the paper, I cap my sword, They will never hear of my eternal struggle, As I toss away my words.