I am a poet.
A quiet voice,
The one you hear in the wind,
Sighing restlessly
Over the graves of her past.
My pen is my life,
So bid it not run out of ink.
This paper is my breath,
Aging slowly
With time's gentle hands.
My heart bleeds ink,
My mind creates the word,
And my lung whispers them.
Whispers them to the dust,
Gathering on the page.
Calls that are lost,
I ache to be heard.
A writer,
Clinging to her only purpose,
Like dewdrops to a web.
I am a poet,
A leaf drifting on the breeze,
Searching for the sun.
To enlighten it,
With a chlorophylled embrace.
My eyes are deep blue.
Reflecting inner doubt
Of an ocean of vast sky,
I write this since…
I am a poet.
-Wroxy Work
2012
















