|I lure my poor heart with love,
And it is my poet’s fraud to overhear,
as if I poison my heart silently,
and rush with words to heal it.
I turned myself in a lost soul,
desperate enough to be loved,
but my heart now is numb,
knowing my guilt, I made it clever.
It weeps in me and I know,
My poet made it a coy,
as if it lost it’s only friend,
but still it beats for me.
With every breath now,
I ask for an apology;
My poet will stay guilty,
but with rewards and sympathies.
It is not always easy to be a poet,
you may weave words,
in the mould of emotions,
but with scars on your heart.
You live or choose to, in the unknown,
Some people embrace your words,
while some laugh away,
Still we, may be bound to, but worship in the unknown.