The Poet

The Poet

The poet hidden within. Trace’s their steps. To find the words jumbled and fractured. Mending with rhyme and a written tune.

The poet within forever fighting to be let free. Let the wordsmith run free. Let the words flow from river to sea.

The poet now free. The words speak for me. The words are bigger and brighter, forceful and memorable.

The poet is me. My mind runs free from the comments, constraints and restrictions we put in place.

The poet is my free speaking mind. The words I cannot speak out loud. I blush and quiver when lost in a crowd. You do not see me. Yet, you hear me clearly.

The poet is the voice. A monster of words I have to release. My meditation of concentration that keeps sane. For my pain hurts me several times a day.

The poet is my release. It keeps my own inner peace. As my pain chips, tires me, it cannot be restrained. My words are my tool to see me through.

The poet does not resemble me. A persona of someone new to me. I grip the poet by the hand. I hurry the word’s. It’s important I let them out. I don’t want to leave a poem missed out. I don’t have my own voice to shout.

Toria

7/6/2022