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