I breathe in fire during the days of endless sunshine,
And exhale the moon in full glow.
I am the days I soak in,
And the nights that leak from memory.
I am the garden, flowers, and growth I seek,
And the endless muscle aches of fortune I create.
I am a lost soul and I freely admit it.
I am more than I can speak of in these simple lines of poetic creation.
I want to be true inspiration,
And these dumbed down syllables I assimilate get me closer.
To be a reason, a purpose, a war cry is why I keep scribbling desperate words.
Poetry is more than past mistakes.
Poetry is more than fortunes made.
Poetry is the edge of perception,
That I hope to bend at will.