Poet At Heart

My pen to my paper, is like a blade to my skin,
It helps me release what I feel within,
The ink flows on the paper, like it’s blood down my arm,
Expressing my feelings, without causing me harm,
Not a scar to be seen, just a book of old rhymes,
Where I’ve spilled my feelings, numerous times,
It holds all my secrets, and the tears that I’ve cried,
And in it I write about what I feel inside,
I don’t want to cut, so I write instead,
It’s my way of clearing all the stuff in my head,
But if I happen to change, and take on a new start,
No matter what happens, I’ll be a poet at heart.