Poems hide in the words not spoken

The things you’re desperately trying to

Say But fall flat when you open your mouth

They linger on your tongue,

Waiting for the moment they can be

Released

They burn and numb your senses

The simplest actions are

Marvelous.

Poems are not weak.

They are powerful

 They make the strongest man cry

But they can only do so

When you let them breathe

Paper is the person

Ink is the words

Scribbled across the lines

Echoing in near embrace

But they continue to hide

Even after being written

A poem is not a poem

Until someone reads it

Feels what the writer has felt

Relates to your desperation

The words you can not speak

And know someone sees

The same way as you.