Poetry makes this life, 
appear to make sense;
With its rhyme, its rhythm, 
and subtle eloquence. 

It speaks to the soul,
through the hope of a lover,
through rebellious dreams,
through the pain of another.
It tells us we’re the same.
It unleashes our demons.
It’s vague in approach,
and accepts all our reasons;
Some more honest than others,
some just write to impress
some accept poetry,
as their right to regress,
into things best unsaid,
and feelings left ignored.
See sometimes through a poem,
you see glints of one’s core.

I find I write as a man, 
but I speak as a boy.
I write about truth, 
but my voice is more coy.

I write for the girls,
I’m too scared to approach. 
Or the other lost souls,
who just need a life coach. 
I write to some men, 
who I don’t even know. 
My voice stays with me…
who knows where my words go?
I write so you know, 
I am more than you see. 
You may say how you feel, 
but my voice’s not that free.

My words are the truth, 
and my voice is the lie. 
It seems poems can make sense,
of the most f****d up guys.



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