What it Means.

Angry poetry written on scrap sheets of paper,

Chewed up pens. and ink covered hands.

That is what it is like to be a poet.

Ideas running through your head.

Thoughts burning your fingertips.

Nights spent staring into space

as you make an attempt to put the words in perfect order. 

But it never is.

And it never will be.

That is how we suffer for the arts.

We make it our lives,

and even our goal,

to get out what is stuck inside.

That is what it means to be a poet.

Get your ideas out into the world,

and create something beautiful.

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Our world

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