I am engraving my face with the legacy of my writing
In vulnerability and narcissism, I open my thoughts to the world
I am a poet in a world frightened by the written word; the emotion of the unspoken heart
Verse is a fumbling attempt at organized feeling
Lost are we in the uncertainty of eternal rest
A cloud to lay our weary soul or infinite void
Restful are we, the authors of humanity
Burdened by the prose of our forefathers; heightened by the notion if a new generation of followers













