My bleeding heart

craves

a solution

that

doesn't

exist.

Flying elephants,

Dancing piglets.

IMAGINATION,

pouring out my mind,

cashing on to paper

with passion.

Cannot be caged up,

Cannot becontrolled,

for it manifested on its own.

Poetry,

is not the poem.

Poems,

are not the words,

But,

the descriptions of my inner being.

My twisted,

unknown monster,

that hides,

deep inside

the abyss

within my body.

Without writng,

I become dust

Again.

Dirt between the cracks.

Alone.

and

Afraid.

I cannot express,

who I may be.

For who I am,

is undefined,

unloved,

and

poorly written.