Poet Dead

 The Poet Dead writes for himself not for the love, not for the care. The Poet Dead had written a message but the Poet Alive tells his story. The Poet Alive writes for the truth. The Poet Alive has now been born. Live his mind and share his duty and percieve the meaning within your mind and accept it and paint your portrait alive.

Poet dead,

Poet dead,

You tell me you love me,

In a moment the words fill the mind,

The mind is given the slight chance to feel happy,

But why feel happy when one can feel lust?

But why even feel lust when you are given the chance to stay away from either.

You tell me you love me,

Lust,

no.

Happiest.

not the slightest.

Do you love me with care or only because it's easy?

Do you spread "love" with the tip of your tongue in a single word

or embrace its meaning and praise it for a life time?

You mutter the very word without a moments care,

You expect a reaction but I give a shoulder.

The Poet dead is not alive

To feel the lust and the love not given

It must be alive,

Love is alive,

The mere act of liking is alive,

The emotion is alive,

But death is not alive,

Poet alive,

Poet alive,

Please don't die,

Poet alive.

You share your meaning,

Not to hide,

Only to help understand

The poet alive.

I am the poet alive, I am not a curse or a moment to be glanced over. There is an embrace we share and I care because the poet alive has learned to live and not to die. The thoughts that arise within the mind must not be forgotten or diminished, but perceived  upon first glance and understood. These thoughts are no curse but a portrait that may be further painted to ones liking. How will you paint your portrait?

-Poet Alive