The true poet within

didn’t know who I was before this,

couldn’t find myself without you,

what is life without interests,

life is a blank canvas… your mind the paint and brushes… find your mood.

there was a time when there were no thoughts,

does that mean there were no cares,

does that signify there was no soul,

maybe just nothing but a shell of myself.

perhaps the flesh without a purpose,

beyond what we knew,

this may not be the definition of poetry,

but my rendition of my truth.

finding my purpose in a world that is empty,

no one to tell you that you matter,

where only your words can validate your existence,

not a single person to let you know they care.

this was my reason,

the only thing I had left,

to remind myself that I’m still there.

the reason I wrote is to remember I’m alive,

only enough to scream from the rooftops of my mind, and for no one to listen.

rambling… pacing… madly in too deep,

too much to think… merely no sleep.

the more I write, the less it makes sense,

this is not for you.. but for them.

the voices that don’t allow my mind to find peace,

not that I deserve it… or need it.

the reason I write to ease the tension,

from all of those who seek attention.