The poet

Who i am is what i write
ink of black on paper white
thoughts of the heart my hand feels
coated words that make them real

wristy strokes untamed spirit
heart and mind awkwardly meet
sudden songs begin to sprout
turmoiled soul lost in shouts

walking on some lonely lane
of joy, laughter, tears, and pain
this hand, these pen and paper
become my adored master

desired worlds borne from the heart
ended lines begin to start
broken bonds, lost memories
rebuilt by my similes

flight of words from here to there
a poem's life slowly appears
i smile with my humming hand
indeed my poem is my land

who i am is what i write
words burning in the dark night
coiled in things that are unseen
in places I've never been

wish i could wish i might
turn my night into daylight
oh my restless soul still cries
my poem's my life, my demise