The Mind Of a Poet

The room is too hot to write a single word.
As I sit here in silence, scratched up thoughts begin to emerge

"today I am here with you, yesterday I was alone in tears. Tomorrow you will be gone once again, once more I am dormant through fear."

Awake I am sweating, with the heat rising against my pours.
Sweat begins to drip, as I think up more lines in store.
Whispers begin to come in and I begin to hear the fullness of something pure.

"My love you have fallen in a grave so shallow and cold,
I cannot bare the stillness throughout this house we have together grown so old.
The windows have become fogged and now its hard to see the past. So blind am I with tears in the eyes, this life is too hard to grasp."

Still the heat fills the room and thoughts become potent to every movement I make. Its as though by some graven image my life has become at stake. Chills to the bone quiver up my spine and the room becomes dead and cold. I can feel the hands that control these words ravel with poetry untold.

"Seven days since past your still within my dreams. Sleepless, I am being haunted by sad and horrid screams. The tears have dried since you have died but my heart still falls with pain. I'm writing you now this poem of love in which i have to gain.
ill hearted, i can bare no more as I weep in torment on this torn and faceless floor. Bleeding I want you back like something more than life.
Reaped in sorrow, dressed in black, I'm writing with a knife."

As the poem soon ends, the feelings descend and the thoughts begin to subside. The room is back with a new poem to stack and the poetry goes back inside.