I put my thoughts to a pen and the ink pays the price. People proclaim to be the meaning to my words but when they are put on paper my words don't recognize them. Therefore I doubt it's my fault when people have to read in between the lines of my poetry. To own my words claim me behind them. For I speak with poetic fire; A link of harmonial testimonies extracting from the belly, being responsible for the supplier of shaping underlying imagery. Grammatical choirs which ignite the crossing boundary for cycled charisma to leave trailing footprints on instilled provisions as abstract indulgence. Fortelling stories that depict from writings documented by the eyes to be forever reminded that prior events is what enable poets to step on hot coals and embrace obstacles as if it were the reasoning for poetry appreciation. The proper revelation may not be inscribed on the lips but a poet will feel this fire in truth releasing from the chest.