love of poetry
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Once the Poet is done psychically with his or her craft
With the vernacular of his or her masterpieces
It’s the role of the readers to add mentally missing pieces
I was depressed at a young age,
Becoming a new person every day,
Never crying, emotions looking for a way out.
It came to me three quarters into sixth grade.
I paused from running away to stare at a golden page.
The thoughts put in words
and the words giving thought,
A cycle of emotion,
As put by Frost.
The emotions run sweet,
Through my body like cream;
An unreal sensation
If I can't close my eyes and imagine the endless metaphors
there is no need for these eyes of mine
If I can't sway to the flows and effortless quotes that glide from mouths
