This thing you call poetry,
This scraping of my heart,
Blood on pages,
Dying with each word wrote.
This thing you call poetry,
Thoughts and feelings,
Spilling out a porthole
for the world to read
This thing you call poetry,
Kills with each word wrote,
Brings life with each word read,
Gives meaning to a persons life,
With each swipe of a pen,
I become a martyr,
I become a hero.
YOU ARE READING
A Public Poetry Diary
PoetryA poet is only as good as their muse, All of mine happen to bring sorrow.
