Let me start,

Saying that words,

Lines,

Talk of the shallow mind,

Pump from the steady heart. 

Creativity is a white flame,

That can fuel your mind,

And spark a fire in your eyes.

Time and reason,

Bound with color abruply make you realize.

That the world is a living, breathing canvas. 

We simplly overlook,

The days before us.

The starving eyes took,

Away our hope of sensibility.

The past is why we're here today.

Why we delay,

The chase to unspoken dreams,

and blanded things,

We have always disliked. 

Like I said,

Sentences make the rest of this journey worth while. 

Taking words from the heart,

Bleeding out who we are evolves into a style.

I  write to paint my living canvas. 

I fill a black book with who I am.

It's been with me through divorce, death, cancer..

Because of it I can still stand. 

I owe my strength to poetry,

Through thick and thin it's filtered sin. 

I have been inclined to share,

Undoubtly aware.

That poetry heals a broken being.

Takes a cold, numb situation and gives it feeling. 

Whether a broken home or a incurable disease,

Expressing your heart makes it easier to believe. 

That the future holds everything you've ever written about. 

All the dreams and things that got you through. 

One day, 

They will be surronding you.

 

 

Never stop writing.