i am searching
searching for a heart that can see through my mask
searching for someone that can set free my tortured sole
see the patterns in the words of the world
to make them flow
to sing a passionate song
of triumph and glory
of sorrow and gore
telling tales of
battles won
and battles lost
to cure my heart of its pain
what i seek is the heart of a poet

the most obvious mark of a poet
are their eyes
eyes that look for the good in all things
eyes that love to live
and live to love
eyes that guard a spirit
that treasures the beauty of ordinary things
like the color of the trees that line the road
and the simple sincerity of printed paper
i found a few that call themselves writers
oh they write well enough
but they aren't what I'm looking for
they only love to live
and don't understand what it means
to live to love
to feel nothing but
love
and care
and passion

my eyes flicked from one person to another
trying to find true love in their hearts
but they are all a bit hateful
all a bit shallow and vain
i search yet i discover things
i would rather have left alone
i find
the death of love by carelessness
the death of peace by hate
the death of poetry by ignorance
the death of happiness by war
i find horrible suffering
where none should be
i find hunger
and poverty
and grief
i find that i am not perfect
i judge
i hate
i lie
i would not be close to being worthy
of this non-existent poet-at-heart that i yearn for
and that thought gives me
yet another reason
to call out tho the reaper
and make an early departure
across the river Styx

after this cruel realization
i decided to simply pick the best i saw
the one most likely to mend this damaged heart
i thought i found someone that was
kind
and caring
and considerate
as close to the poet-at-heart of my dreams
as i thought i had ever seen
time passed
and true happiness failed
as i realized he couldn't see
who i really was
i tried to make it clear
to right what was wrong
and to balance on a treacherous edge of discomfort
it didn't last
and the wind of betrayal pushed me off
to sink deep into the bog of despair
my glass heart broken
against this so called "almost" poet-at-heart

yet i cannot be mad at him
as it is not his fault
that i trusted my heart to someone
who didn't share my values
yet the fool in me
still leaves the peaces of what is left
in his possession
and every time he throws a look of scorn my way
or deals an unfair blow with his sharpened tongue
it wrenches up bitter tears of regret
and pulls me ever closer
to calling out to the reaper
and making an early departure
across the river Styx