Embers

People sometimes ask me how I write poetry.
Is it muscle memory that I alter every time?
Is it a whisper that comes to me?
How do I write?
Somewhere along the way, the gods gave me their poetry, in exchange for my peace.
Being alone is painful now, because every voice in my head speaks without talking.
They all give me lines to write on, and I make order out of chaos.
Nights are non existent to me, because the whispers take them away.
I traded away my sanity for the art of the Pen.
I traded my sleep for the ability to paint pictures with words.
I traded my sleep away,
For those little whispers,
Those whispers of poetry that I now hold.
These poems are little sparks,
That I pick in the dead of the night,
That give me permanance,
Give me passion, give me peace,
Give me poetry.
I ran from it but the thing
I loved came always back to me.
When I was young I used to see,
Sports being the call for me
But the Pen, I couldn’t survive it’s charms,
With it I lasted several storms, blowing away in only a few, and only then reaching out to you.
I traded everything away,
To leave a print on a page,
To make sure that my age is
What I transcend as I write for rememberance.
I write for my peace.
They are embers, to not be contained in rhyme schemes but to be let free and to let burn within this world.
I was a young boy looking for talent,
To feel the words I now carry.
And in the process, I traded it away,
My nights, my peace, my sanity, my sleep,
Just for these embers,
That burn in me.