My soul is filled to the brim; I\'m made of poetry,
Each time I write,
I pull out a poem out from inside me,
Like a thread long lost,
Like a long forgotten memory.
My muses change constantly,
Some still in my life,
Who I cherish with all my heart ,
Some who left my life long ago,
Unaware a poet\'s love follows them like a shadow,
Unaware that once, in the dark , they were the muse to someone\'s poems,
Poems that are not so much as glanced upon now ,
Why ? Because once , they held too much of my heart hostage.
I bleed my heart out ,
I bleed out the words,
I bleed onto the paper,
Like a fallen soldier,
And they called it poetry.
Poetry spoke to me like a spirit,
Ever since I was seven,
Then , I was haunted by thoughts I had not just yet learned to express,
Now , I drown in my own words ,
Nonetheless, I hold no regrets.