The words scream out of my pen
They splash my page
This feeling I hold
It's not simply one
Sister, I hold your sorrow
Brother, I taste the rage
I'm so restless
I wish I could fly
In the field of colors
That feeds in my mind
The flowers bloom
And the fruit grows
The seeds fall
And produce my letters
The machine churns them all together
And spits out what I'd love to say
They flow into my blood
And fill up my veins
They soar to my hand
And make themselves known on my page
What I'd love to see
Is the fuel into all of this
How does it happen?
I will never understand
But I suppose that's what makes it
Poetry.