The Poet.

The poet in me’s private and reserved for here and now To express myself in normal life, I never quite knew how The words I write are heartfelt and can cut straight to the bone I write of thoughts and feelings that only I can own. If ideas of that I dream could not find life in rhyme The person that I could have been would just be lost in time A life that’s kept on record in thinly picture painting meaning All my raw emotions spilling out, with very little screening I share my life with readers that will never truly know me With words that open up a side, that real life will not see. Is the poet that lives in others the same that lives in me? Does he hide your true persona, leaving you anonymously free? The poet in me’s cunning; some words not always true. But what you see is all you get. The rest left up to you.