This gifted madness you call poetry

You must strive to find your own voice because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Robin Williams - Dead poets society Poets are born, not manufactured. The moment when life said: "Recite a poem for me." Verses began to flow, like moonlight shimmering upon tides rushing to the shore. Tongue spoke in silent tones, in a language forgotten in time. Emotions that had been internally burning bled a scripted sadness of sentimental scents. . A perpetual periodical anthology of adversity, hidden behind an enigmatic encrypted haiku, about a lost soul's suffering in chains, caged within the nonsense of syllables. An unmetered sonnet, where the world saw common rhymes, as unforgivable idiotic crimes. Not all metaphors make sense. Still the quill yearned for meaning. To write in evergreen sanguine blessings, creating a vocabulary reminiscent of blossoming phraseology - but words can be misinterpreted. When eyes lie with fake flattery, this gifted madness you call poetry, is like a curse for a wordsmith. The mind becomes bewildered, drifting in heavy hues of longing lavenders, wondering where the spring flowers are. Some remain content with withering thoughts, but my ink is immortal in sowing perennial seeds.