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Short, Reflective by Mike Hendricks
If I were truly a poet,
each line would make you cry.
every word you read would shatter your soul,
through fire and ice, as a passerby.
If I could write what I really mean,
I'd steal your breath right out your lungs.
No detours, no motion, not passing your teeth.
Your intention to breathe is said and done.
If I could spell half the things I feel,
the letters would eat you alive,
they'd grow large, toothy in front of you,
devour your small heart, rip open your lies.
If I could cut these wings right off my back,
I wouldn't have far to fall.
Only a poet can soar on intention alone,
I'm no poet at all.