A Poet's Thoughts

I try to be a poet, turning everything I feel into the magic dusted fairy phrases that I steal from scattered, peeling pages of a strybook within the cluttered combination of my unforgotten sins. I pen forsaken fallibles surrounded by a word or sometimes sweet soliloquy the likes you've never heard to transfer tiny twinkles of my heartbeat intertwined unraveling vocabulay's voiceless valentine. I write to make the parchment sing in choired harmony between the soured notes that echo of a diff'rent me I bang upon the beggar's door and scratch a little while to softly offer spices to my peppered paper pile. I scribble, tearing barriers belonging to us all with scripted scenes cascading over turbid waterfalls pouring metered movements in a liquid sea of motion washing over thirsty souls who drink my clear emotion. I try to be the treasured tome as written by my muse expressing me uniquely through these hands she likes to use composed in crying chords of sorrowed laughter's ecstasy, I try to be a poet, but that choice is not for me.