Instinct

Never born a poet

A poet is never born--

Though rhymes run through his veins

And words spell out his name

A poet is never born--

Though tears and crimson scratches make up his piece

Wounds on his heart- not on his knees

A poet is never born--

Though his eyes reflect the gray and the cold

His mind stays young--- his fingers old

A poet is never born

Though poison is inert in his blood

Riches he picks from the mud

A poet--- is made!

Through stains of frustration

Strings of confusion

A poet is made!

Through snuffles of happiness

Bliss of joyfulness

A poet is made!

Through arrogance and conceit

Success and defeat

A poet is never born--

He--- is made.

And what he makes of what he has become

Would last---

Forever--