This poem was inspired to me by a friend, Nicolas. This was written with him in mind and is a script of his words.

The Poet who hates words.

Ink and scribbles on a page
can but diminish feelings worth.
They do no justice to emotion
to capture beauty’s a foolish notion.

Limits what the mind perceives,
with symbols we call cursive.
It dulls love to a simple noun,
amorous: blunt adjective.

Sorrow is then summarised
in six letters the Greeks devised.
The hole that’s left in someone’s soul,
A sadness six letters can’t hold.

The fire of relationships,
in seven letters try to fit.
Passion will never compare,
to the turmoil that lovers must fare.

I am a Poet who hates words,
a paradox or irony,
Words cannot tell me what I be,
I won’t in Ink be scribbled ‘Me.’

Sing for me ,