I remember when poets still used ink and paper

We’d spill our hearts on the pages

But modernly, we write in any way, shape, or form

As long as emotion is present

We are spreading our wings and using words as steps to our minds and our hearts

Letting others peer into our soul

Occasionally without using our eyes which I’ve heard are the windows to the soul,

But that means that my soul can be hidden

If maybe I put on a pair of contacts or shades,

I want to be seen

And I want to be heard

Maybe I don't have a voice or a choice

But these words that are on the tip of my tongue don't want to stick there like ice

They want to escape and to find meaning

These words want to find their way, but they need guidance from us poets

That wear our hearts on paper

We leave our hearts and our emotions open to criticism

We leave them to be read and misunderstood

We leave them to be heard and ripped to shreds sometimes

We leave it to others to define us

When the whole time we were writing maybe,

We were just trying to define ourselves

And tell the desires of our wildest imagination…

But the part…

The part that is worth it all

Is when somebody can understand

Finally you’ve made something that has meaning

And this something means everything

Because your voice is somewhere out there in the world

And finally someone or anyone has heard

Your mere whispers among the commotion of humanity