Feb 22, 2025
They say that I have the heart of a poet.
I don't know yet what it means,
because I bleed rage through my eyes,
and I kill poems in my ribs.
My grief no longer looks
like a beaded necklace of words
that you would wear like a promise,
but a mosaic that you would walk past, because it's hard to comprehend.
But they say that I have the heart of a poet, may be the one that nurtures chaos,
for I yearn for salvation.
And just like my scribbles on the walls,
my childhood is long gone.
Yet the heart of a poet,
which is naive,
unlike the walls I have built around me,
who's innocence is merely a knife
turned inside me.
I hear the ticking of the clock,
and wonder how much will this heart endure.
Oh, this very heart of a poet as they like to call.
