A heartbeat

Dark green stalks, 

Prickly and vibrant hues, wave

Gently in the soft breeze. 

Some say poets are people 

Who have great stories to tell, 

But need the strings of a harp to give their

Words wings. Others suggest

That poets are only writers who

Sing rather than type. Wind chimes

May tinkle in the golden evening, and

Inspire little inspiring tunes into a poet’s 

Ears. Words that make the hand swirl ink

On the familiar chalk white paper. Yes,

Some poets look like normal people who dream further, 

Brighter and bring a little more meaning into our lives.

But just as the candle may show how a light in the dark 

Is a voice in the silence,

Poets need to have a dark side too.

My friend the poet may smile as warmly

As the rays of a spring’s sunshine rays,

But I’ve discovered that, as the sun gives life,

Its rays can burn scars that will never heal.

I wonder sometimes how it came about

That I realised I was a poet,

Maybe it was because of the gnawing feeling

Of thoughts and ideas, like seeds 

That want to grow, suppressed by my parents

A long time ago. 

When my tongue tried to tell of how a butterfly

Looked like a broken stained glass window,

My parents hushed them to listen

To taller people speak.

Time and time again, it so happens that

They keep me quiet in voice,

But if we could not speak, and I wrote all my thoughts 

Down that sprang to mind, why, 

I’d tell such horrid and exquisite things that I 

Would end up in the asylum all writers are destined to be.

Attention! Listen to me! I want to yell them out

At the top of my voice so that you can hear me.

My parents place firm hands on my arms and give me

The Warning Look. And my words are swallowed,

My cheek raw from biting back, and again, 

Asking why I’m moody or sullen. 

So next time you meet a poet,

Ask how they feel. 

Poetry is the soul pleading for someone to heal

The bits and pieces that were torn off.

It’s a person’s hidden message that they want

Approval, recognition or attention to know that 

They’re doing something right. As a poet,

My purpose in life hid in dark patches,

Lost in mind’s eye,

But through the storm clouds,

When someone asks if I’m okay,

I can see a little sunshine asking me 

To stay in this beautiful, terrible place.