Scraps
–
Scraps are left for me to feed
lacking beauty in every stroke defined
between places full of grime
collected through my years
and only I can see.
No beautiful moon to bring tears
or tender songs to call mine
no love whispered in my ears
only empty spaces
and a cold bed.
No accusing faces
or committed crime
as I alone wept.
I tried I said, I tried
definition to chaos find
and to everything I said
but broken down I die
with scraps to feed my feeble mind.
–
H.O
From Cold to Fire 
Then let the fire begin. With anger, make it burn bright. Feed it.
While you say you are not a poet then why is this an excellent poem? Life is contradiction. I am a writer. When put ink onto paper, there is power. What comes to the pen is spiritual and I do beleive that you are.
I thank you for such wonderful comment. I am not a man of faith but hold so much of it inside, not a true believer but believe in so much. If spirituality lives in the words we weave together, then you can say I am spiritual.