What separates words on a page from a poem?
The answer isn’t there and the one who gives it is no one.
A poem is a gift and gifts represent love
My paper is the sky and the eraser is my dove.
They say sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you.
If I’ve learned anything in fifteen years it’s that words are the things that desert you.
Fifteen years, countless tears- countless jumps for joy.
180 months sounds more than enough for one 15 year old boy.
I’m ready for battle of whatever lies ahead
One single pen and a dream in my head
My ink is my ammo, my backup’s my pencil
I’m prepared to conquer any other writing utensil
And as long as I have this love in my heart
My endings are always yours to start