Only the poets know where all of our lives eventually go,
spent in making homes of their own,
using sticks and stones and gathered bones.
woven with love, care and hopes,
strengthened by dreams and the future it holds in store.
And maybe some homes are not placed.
They are the people, feelings, and a moment in time
The ones you come running back to when things don’t seem quite right
Only the poets take it all in, hold it close,
For they live but a thousand little lives, what good is it if we don’t value our time?
The poets, we keep it all close,
write down the stories and feelings only our hearts know.
We, the poets, hold the world in our hearts and tell its tale from our pens,
Our eyes watch it all, and we tell those stories that almost went unsaid.
The poets see this world for what it is,
And hold dreams in their little hearts for all that they could be.
A poet’s heart is a beautiful one indeed.
As their unsaid tales, they scream at the top of their lungs.
I’m a poet, heart and soul,
These chronicles hold much more than what life has ever told.
Diya Mittai
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