I don't know how to write poetry

I don't know how to write poetry. Words slip through my fingers into the arbitrary darkness of some other realm where my muse has decided to make it's home. Line breaks, sonnets, Plath and Poe, they all sound to me like a language I've forgotten how to speak because of my dried-up youth. I remember a time when I looked at a black piece of paper and called it home. A time when blood would run down my finger tips and drip-drop down on a page and I would smile. At the reflection of me. Now, my blood boils whenever I say I am a writer. The more I said it, the more my hands began to look like the parchment paper it once loved so much. I don't know how to write poetry. But I understand how a poem can feel like a stab in the heart and a soft sigh of your soul. I understand how nothing is more beautiful than to wander through the crevices of letters scrawled on a page. I understand how it feels to live with these words that manifests inside your body, their small hands burning your skin trying to escape, but when you speak, only blood and ashes fall, How it feels when the only solution is to destroy everything that you are because once you are nothing but ashes and fire, They would've found the only way out. I understand how it feels to be so empty because poetry is ridden in your friend's smile and prose is laced in those kisses that he gives you, but at night - There is no poem left to write. I don't know how to write poetry. But I understand the heart of every poet I know.