Within every poet there is an unforeseen force,

A brainstorm of wisdom and insight in which must run its course,

It can't be stopped or controlled,

because it takes the poets soul whole,

The pen becomes the sword and a poet is now a solider 10,000 deep,

His word are precise and his blade cuts deep,

It pierces through the soul and instills nightmares in its victims sleep,

Will my words cut? Has my sword been formed?

I feel like I only cut myself with my own blades and reach none but my conscience....

An i writing for you or me?

Am I fighting for your soul or mine?