IMPRINTED SCARS.

There are million songs in his heart,
A thousand rhythms in his mind,
Hundreds of ballads he can't sing,
And unending poems he can't recite.

In this silent heart of a poet,
Whispers silent and calm prayers,
With regrets and painful tears,
That no man seems to understand.

For a millionth time in this day,
Things don't seem to go his way,
Desperately he tries to narrate,
To the spirits hoping they can hear.

He tries to wash away his pain,
Trying to forget all what he lost,
But then along he notices,
He's flashing down his soul too,
And that now his pain and he,
Are in unison and can't separate.