It seems in this day and time every one is a poet. But what is within a poem but words. Words are just letters and letters are just ink splashed against a blank page. But all together you have feelings
But for feeling is just another word, Just another meaning inside your head in which you hope to comprehend.
But for what are you. Skin. Bones. Nerves. Empty. Cells. Cells that become lost within time.
But for what is time? Is it a number? Is it an object? Or just another meaningless word?
Its lost
Its here
Its then
Its now
Its nothing
Its every thing
It is
It just is