As a poet. We do not like to be told how to feel and when to feel it. If it is real or it is not. It is. We care not of another way for we see all ways. We know life is to feel. All other paths are dead ends. If you wanna live one must feel. Not selfishly. Truly selflessly. We do not want to be told when and where to ignite passion. What tragedy to smile at and why we would ever smile during such. We don’t want to be told what to learn from pain and how to master sorrow. For we have learned it over and over and jumped right back in willingly.  When most would lock away their heart and run and turn to stone. We have mastered the ability of turning to stone and come alive at will. But to feel is to live. We don’t wanna hear who or what can bring us to tears. We might even not ever wanna master these feelings. Choosing to only feel pain. For mastering these pains will bring our words to others about our victory and not the words they themselves cannot bring from their own tears. For Victory is not theirs. Not yet. It will be but you must go through the dark first. Victory is not theirs yet so words of victory would feel foolish. So victory is also not outs yet. Feel for the masses. So they can understand themselves. Put words to their own silent, misunderstood heart. They will call you too emotional. A bleeding heart. Weak. Truth is you have walked through fire to understand the human condition. and felt fear, pain, love, hate, cruelty, laughter, joy, violence, anger, sorrow all of these and more bravely and you have done so on purpose. Bravery is simply life to you. We have gone to war with the darkest part of human nature for we know it resides in us. We have gone to war with everyone’s most terrifying enemy....ourselves. Our strength and power is that we are afraid because we aren’t afraid and never will be. Not to say we don’t feel fear... Great fear. but no one... no one can make us feel anything we will not use. We rise and heal through adversity and become bored in lack of fluidity and intimacy. Touch is a language. Words are ways to make it hard. But touch does not need translation. We rarely regret and this is not because of arrogance but because our regrets are how we have learned. We know we will have many more before the lesson is learned. We can choose to feel through others until we have chosen. Or we are chosen and accept. We want to feel with them or nothing. Deep down we want someone to go to war with ourselves with while by our side and also fight their battles with care and upmost devotion. When we love every scar and toil is ours. We weave ourselves into them. We never stray from a true kindred spirit. We nurture where we don’t ask nurturing in return. But we give benefit of doubt until we see they will never respect our nurturing. We nurture ourselves by nurturing our chosen other soul... those who choose us will see us for  what we are. love our scars as we love theirs..knowing each scar physical and on the heart is ours to bandage to love and take under our wing... if someone chooses they must be brave. We are endlessly empathetic but refuse to hide the truth from them. We see their pain as our own....and once truly given of ourselves we never get it back.. it is theirs forever. Yet we are not diminished... not even for a moment. We see it as a gift for them and a gift for ourselves for we give of ourselves with glee. We are too passionate too many .. misunderstood as angry. Untrue. When we fight it’s from sadness. But are someone to forgive and give back. Our love is soo intense it will scare many... our passion burns heavily in all walks of life. Our kiss is one of total encompassing love and understanding.. lust unlike many go hand in hand with love... we can be any side needed and it is not acted. We simply have all sides to tap into. saying all this. Fact is we also have no problem in being alone. In fact crave it. We seek a human who is so a part of us that when together we feel alone yet full..We want to laugh beside a group of friends that truly understands none of us will ever truly understand the other. Stand with someone who is never trying to be more or less than you. Competition and jealousy is insecurity. Insecurity can manifest in us but in most will see juvenile. Extrovert and Introvert have no meaning as both have reason to be experienced. We are a Villain and a hero. A loser and triumphant. We are poets and are charged with making this fact known of all of us. That connection is craved deeply and wether that be a night talking in depth to a stranger met at random over a few drinks or a connection that will change our lives and all in between. We feel deeply. Think logically enough to put words to that we feel. But as a poet when many reside in other realms our plight and gift is to reside in the soul. We cannot tell the future by witchery but because we have felt a history of emotion through the maps of our dreams and senses not yet known to science. We can sense and feel the intentions and passion or cruelty of others sometimes before even they feel it. We hope to help all rise. For to feel is to rise. Material does not rise. Our goal in life is to connect and live. Wherever it is ...in the traveler or those that cannot make it out of the old mining town. We know this is what the soul is. A history of emotions as necessary as blood flowing. And We will tear it apart just to show someone they are validated to feel. To show them you can show them what they did not know they were feeling. Because they could not find the words. They sat angry because it all ended there... you’re a poet. You give nuance to solid emotion. Anger the dead end of emotions. Pain and sadness often fly into anger without knowing. Those that witness it cannot understand it as anything else. All are guilty of this. But the poet gives the masses tweezers and a scalpel to pick through what they feel and why. And that it is intelligent to do so. So we become your dark nature for you so that we can feel the deepest parts of ourselves. We will tear it apart yes and then with a smile and a tear put it back together after willingly letting others tear it apart. We can smell a century long past. We can see movement in nothingness. We can taste death in that which is born and feel love when love has never truly been experienced. We can just know what it will feel like. We can hear hell itself in the most soothing of sleep. Screams both of pain and of ecstasy. Tears of laughter and joy. See the face of evil in the corners of sacred rooms. The most hideous of demonic spirits grow their face in our bedroom shadows. Laying in fear and awe of it Then upon waking give wings to the wind and purify ourselves in the rising sun and be born anew. We drown in excess. Substance we light and let flow through our brain and veins. Sex we have ruthlessly charged headlong into when keep out signs hung along its borders. Yet we have not given importance to these things. We do not uplift foolishness but make it understood. We have stared at the face of death just to understand its wrinkles a bit better. That death may die itself. Stared at the eyes of death. Forced open eyelids to look at what no longer has a soul after it has fled. Walked into the void most dare not even turn toward. To feel the fear we know to warn of. The poet is everywhere. Healers and warriors. The art of words can be born in all types. The saint and degenerate. We can choose to love so much when we know it is pointless just to see it end in flames. Tragedy is our playground. We still long for someone to know how to laugh at it with us. We can also choose to never love for what feeling need be felt more than those who have never loved. For they are null and to not love is to never feel. Poets will do anything and do absolutely nothing and in doin so have lived more lives than believed. They have endless wealth yet could have nothing. Be rich with materialism yet be broken in the abundance of the heart. We are here to show that your heart can sit within your mind. Poets aren’t born as much as made. For we all feel. But only some grab over and over what will burn and grow in then distrust which they can cast off like a cloak. We are avaricious for experience and that experience can be divine or rotten. Guiltless and blameless. Smirking without shame. Or live in a shame that threatens our very existence. Arrogant and insecure. Ignorant and wise. Those who look at your words saying to feel to much is to be weak. They sit in the corner hidden reading them. Even while throwing away the book. When life has destroyed them. The failure is who cannot feel and turns cold. As a poet we publicize that we are broken and in this rise higher than those that refuse enlightenment. We actually crave heartbreak if the heart that broke ours was never meant to be. We are also in the heart of that we know feels the same. We can sense changes that. We can over imply and know deep down we exaggerate our emotions and those we don’t exaggerate enough. We make our bed in such only to wish well that which was too afraid to experience. When we are told to change. We are confused. For we are fluid. We simply know to live is to know. We fly and heal through emotion. We refuse to shove everything in a box to be dealt with later. We feel and think in real time. Lovingly threading them together with humor and laughter then dip this braid into tears. Then suckle at it with desire. Eyes watching the world starving for experience. To use the blade and taste blood or just to fall in love. Secrets mysteriously fall from our eyes. Which Are scribbled by hand and whispered from our tongue to become yours. We give you the longing that gave birth to the human spirit. We do not just write. We do not just feel. We experience. Some of us rush surefooted only to fail and some to succeed and then some stay at the starting line to understand what it means to be truly without. Truly under the weight of the world. We are on the other side already smiling and watching those that arrogantly tell us that our light is naive and when you are where they are you’ll understand. We understand or we know we do not and never will. for what is ever understood truly? We are the leader of a people and the lowest of human refuse. We choose to be here. we are that man homeless in the street who is in despair yet chooses not to go home. Those that lay against a rock and a hard place ready to break so they simply laugh. The soldier who has noticed the color of the blood of his friends are a bit deeper than those of his enemies. We are the one who is called pessimistic and dark when truly they are optimistic and simply see the light of all. We are that one who chanced forbidden love and knew it would end in pain and confusion but walk away smiling. That child who sees the last breath leave their kin and who feels their hand and knows it is a cold that is different from Winter. The cold of the dead different from the cold when getting out of the tub giggling at a mother’s tickling. A child who grows with each new experience after. We are that love that joined together in one moment forever with the feeling of a sweaty circle slipped on a a hand. That love that died in a scream that didn’t have to be screamed. That love who were buried side by side, that birthed offspring that will never succeed into the world they believes are against them. We are the generalizing of such a thing because the words cannot be found. We are that youth with veins punctured deep in depression and knows not they are able to seek help. We are in the feeling of the last dollar to our name and the feeling of the treacherous exhaustion of work without much reward. That girl with a bottle and a dream that was shattered so they live fast and die young. We are that child hiding behind a couch in fear of the hands that turn to violence when they just held him warmly... who covers his ears against the onslaught of voices soft that are now as coarse as the metal in the vent behind him as he leans away from it all. We are in the knowing that the problems and experiences of the first world are at their base like those of the 3rd and yet utterly different when experienced. We are the child whose hunger has become normalcy. We are the adult who watch them on TV and sigh and feel accomplished when they send a dollar. Also in those that give nothing for they are desensitized and still writing if experience and feeling. We are the feet that walk the bridge deciding if it was worth it all and decide what would be the point of dying as who really cares. We are the feeling of absolute joy at a goal accomplished and then realize we did not want this anyway. We are the celibate that brush against a breathing skin doused in intoxicating scent. The scent is that which makes us human. We are the prostitute that feels touch from the soul through hands for the first time and feels it’s too much like that which she has lost and so longs for the emotionlessness of skin in skin with not reason but release and not her own.  We are the knowing that we will never fill fulfilled and we must make ourselves at home there. Content to be discontent. We are the ill who cannot walk and somehow live on as they roll about the house that was once filled with a families coming and goings. The smell of change from a hand. We are the nonsense in desperation. We are the joke in the comedian. Those that laugh have felt pain the most. We are the over protected that has experienced nothing and therefore experiencing life unlike those that do. Ignorance is bliss they say. We are those that look to the moon for answers we already know the answers too. We are the rumble under the fur of a pet and a bath that is so accidentally hot it is cold. Yet we do not learn for the soulful warmth that comes after is worth it. We are the rigid cold of a river through the mountains. Baptizing yourself in the shrieks and laughter. Feeling the pain of sharp rocks as you scramble for the protection of a jacket and you are instantly unhappy with the stickiness of naked wet skin on dry clinging clothes. We are in the glance and stare of a two pairs of eyes who know not if they hate or love the other and how thin the veil is. We are in the hidden hands where blood seeps through the fingers and knuckles after a cut to deep when told not to keep doing what we were doing. We are the cold dead eyes of those who have truly seen and wish to forget but will not and choose to put pen to paper. Yet we are also the anger of a missed traffic light when so late to a place you hate. We are in the greatness of all felt and the smallest. How we can get angrier at getting caught on a doorknob when frustrated than we could when finding our child has disobeyed a dangerous boundary. The guilt in the taste of something sweet when we know we should not. In the head that bows and ignores the prayer said aloud. The joy and faith in the voice of those that believe what they say whole heatedly. But then you realize you know. Doubt lives in even the most devout of man. All The bad and the good. Those that dominate and those that submit. Those that rule and those that lay down their lives in gratitude. We are in the eyeroll when we re read our words and think what pretentious drivel. But we share it anyway. because none can gauge what effects someone else and how deeply... we choose to take chances and risks... we choose to look at our demons and laugh. Drawing caricatures of them as they try to weigh us down. We drink from their cup and turn our backs when we tire of them. They will not rule our life. Or maybe they will at our behest as we experience them. We are not better or worse than anyone. We simply experience. The smallest experience as feeling our toes on carpet or burrs. To the epics of time. Our senses are never just watching. They are smelling, tasting, hearing, feeling, seeing and use many more to explain such an experience and we do so with words. These words have music weaved into their bones. You feel the musicality but hear no instrument. We seek what all seek. To love and laugh and live. But just beyond that we know we will hurt. We know we will cry and feel pain and that makes us worthy of life. We will build those beside us up when they fall. For we seek more than anything one that feels beside us. One that understands us. That loves both the dark and light we play within. Which can be anyone who truly sees themselves. Who are not blind to feeling out life. Emotions do not mean we cannot think clearly. Many a time we shall seem cold for we must stop feeling for those around us. We want to awaken other to experience with us. For we are willing to cross all boundaries to feel. We will seem wrong and too careless. But believe me we know that which we do. We just know we have the strength to do experience what war comes out way. All consequences are known. We only bite our nails at which one it will be. We hurt and fear the very same. But record it. The greatest adrenaline rush. To live without boundaries. Even though we know it isnt wise. We see our own birth through the blood of our mothers and feel our own death through the eyes of those long past. Your way into this world through passion and your way out through that which feels no more. Or feels so much the body is no longer of use. Learned and full and between the lives we have here. At that time we are dragged through cosmos of knowing taking it with us here and building ourselves into universal fabrics the likes that are made by the hands of everything greater than us. when nothing else is left to be felt. We become divine. We must be born and die to become so. How much there is to be felt. A poet without a faith or belief still seeks the divine. But will understand it through love or hate. but hate will always circle back to love. The poet is a seeker of hidden truths and a skeptic as well as faithful. A doubter as well as a believer. they laugh at their failures and people question why. The poet asks why not? What pain is there left to be felt in heartbreak? They do not shut themselves down. They say let’s do it again. Poet is not a title hard won as it seems. It that lives can be so. It is a title accepted willingly for being simply what we are and what we all were born to do. Live and die. Laugh and love. Hate and fear. The calm in the hurricane and the chaos in still of pool in the deepest of caverns. All that have sensed without knowing the parallels of the universes within us. That hide under a single fingernail. The same nail that draw blood in love and lust. The same that draws blood from those that kill them or that they kill. The same sharpened for anger and war. The same to claw from the pits of despair and fear. That grasps into the walls in pain. Emotion is something we think fully human and unique while our aliens are logical. Is it because we believe emotion to be weak? but still wonderfully ours. The title is given to a poet. In other words a human. Do not neglect your birthright. And know that anything you write will always be more than others feel and know and ultimately misunderstood and falling short of those that know more. We are human.