The mind of a poet
Is clearer than the cleanest water,
That trickles through your mind
Like a stream of thoughts,
Until it builds
Into a waterfall of emotions,
And collects
In a lake of blood,
Surrounding the hole
I put in my head…
The mind of a poet
Is crowded with ideas,
Scratching to get out
Until they burn a passage
Through your right hand
Bleed onto the page
And formulate the letters
That didn’t make sense
When I thought them…
The rough draft of imagination
The mind of a poet
Is obscured by blurs
Of occurrences never heard
The shadow you walk on
And the one that hides you
In the darkness you shiver
But fail to realize
That it is the lone cloud
That rains down the tears
You didn’t know how to cry
The mind of a poet
Is a sponge for opportunity
Seeping up the things
You never knew you knew
Until you can process
The illogical systems
Oil your wheels that
Never stopped turning
And keep in mind
What is on the outside
The mind of a poet
Is the birthplace of creation,
The origin of the ideals
You press upon yourself
And when you feel trapped
Like your space is caving in
Always remember your goal
Of what is yet to come
And that your wish is only,
A mark on the page away