I am the poet, you are the poem; I hold the pen, you are the words, love is the ink, silence is the blank page.

I was made of sadness, still you called me poetry.

There is still peace left in the world,and only those with beauty in their soul,care enough to be it.

So much skin. So little soul.

You take a word,you stitch it to another word,with threads of your soul.It's called poetry.