If I was never a poet,
Pain would be so easy to feel.
If I was never a poet,
I would not care to see the outline of your face
Embedded deep in memory.
If I was never a poet,
I’d not have fingers to press buttons
Merged in the emotions, where I let tears fall.
If I was never a poet,
Love would not be the sun,
But the moon,
Beneath where I always weep.
If I was never a poet,
I could never wet my cheeks
With the streams, the rivers, and the creeks,
That I’ll make into imagery for the poem.
Love once held a candle to me,
And it was to see the page,
Where I had used tears for ink,
While the wax always melted
Into a different shape.
