Before I let the words flow
There’s a ritual I follow or maybe I don’t
I open up a book for the thoughts I am incapable of
And I wonder if I am too selflish a rat
eating and teething everything my new born teeth could find
My hands too tiny, I might learn to carry the wonders I am not
If I learn to balance them on swords I will be strained a king
A kingdom built in vain
Oh my, they lived in isolation though
Enough and immaculate poets
They have mastered the new tricks when I don’t even know the old
I am but a flower reflecting on the blackish damned dungeons
Of hell, such a sorrow
There’s a cry in the faraway halls but no,
No my spirit is not lost
I won’t shine I could not yet sailing through the motionless ocean
tints of gold
I am not enough and yet I write
But maybe I don’t
Maybe, maybe they are just whispers of I hold
~Sarah
As to why I write poetry, when I am not enough
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