maelynslavik

An emerald sweep

of thin spears stretches

through the garden,

past the rough concrete

platform decorated with chairs

of red banded with white,

along the little reservoir

of spitting water,

They wonder why I'm quiet...

They wonder why I don't show my feelings...

They wonder why I listen to everyone's problems...

They don't see the scars that I hide and hurt that I have felt...

Being a poet 

I think to be a poet means

To be one to bleed out 

On lined paper 

And express the hurt 

you must feel.