Poet To The Bone, With No Bone At All.

Another day.

To be a poet, you must think of an emotion. One that's either scarred or made you smile, to write the things, your head has thought up for a while.
You can sit there tapping on the keys, or holding your hands between your knees. For a comfort of hoping, your words will ease. But, in reality do we know our emotions will continue to grow. No matter how much we write or speak, do we dare to take that leap?
I can sit alone.
The heaviness in my heart, like a tumour. Is it worth this life and house I call home? I find beauty in the rain; see the sun through the clouds on a winter's day. I am mixed and matched, with a balance of happy and sad.
This is just human; this is us with no phase.
I have tasted death with my own two hands, a mistake only a few will live through to make. And above all, I can honestly say. Yin and yang is worth holding on for just another day.
Your mind will change and your heart will beat, with tears rolling down your cheeks.
You will see tomorrow, with a smile and say.

"I'm glad I made it, another day."