I am a poet, or at least I was told it.

I had no idea what to do with this gift when the old bards bestowed it.

Poets have this notion that ideas cause explosions, feelings are the detonator and words like poison.

When their blood drips down after the war it’s not golden

My heart in my chest suddenly feels heavy and swollen.

‘I didn’t think!’ 

That’s what the poets say,

But when the reader looks at the page, they no longer feel the same.

They weep over their war torn land, their culture and history, turning into dust and sand.

Writers plead that their words will set the land free,

But the earth is barren as far as the eye can see.

The old bards have become scarred, so they have decided it is time to let the new guard make their marks.

And on a whim, I pick up my pen, determined not to let the cycle start again.