What is a poet? Is a poet to know?
Or are the words she writes, a gift she bestows?
Her mind is fast, Her thoughts are fleeting.
So she pens them down, to her heart's steady beating.
A single spark, creation ignites,
It begins with a glow, then into bright lights
She writes to her pain, her sorrow, her joy
The world reads her letter not knowing she's coy
And how can they perceive, the word web that she weaves
For only she shows them, what's supposed to be seen
A mask of her words, she wears it proudly
At least to the masses, she shows it soundly
But, however there's always a catch
If fear they saw her mask they would snatch
So who is this poet with her mask to be seen?
Who is this poet afraid to be?
Why can't this poet
Set herself free?
Oh wait, thats right.
The poet is me.
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