Why poets are never understood:

Poets, like myself, we bleed,

Sometimes we make others bleed in silence

That we fill with words to avoid the void which may become

The distance between us.

We are made of words that dictionaries do not know,

We make no sense,

We are a foreign language to others,

We are still foreign to ourselves.

When love knocks on the door,

As confusing as it is,

We are just as confusing to love

Because we speak in metaphors

And everything is everything else

Our eyes don't see things as they are,

Our ears have gone deaf

Our mouths don't have a voice, unless if we are to scream

That's why poets are never understood

So, I do not blame anyone when they are confused

Whether to stay with me in the moon light

Or let me speak, gibberish as they say, to the moon alone

And most times, they leave their footprints on my skin

I tear my skin apart, cover it with ink

And turn them into poetry which would stay with me

As long as I stay

They'll become the words engraved on my tombstone,

Barely forming a sentence that would make sense.