We write, we bleed, Of things we dare not feel. We hope, we yearn, Yet silence is all we earn. Must a bird only reach the sky, Before we shall say it can fly? Or must a star shine as bright as the moon, For its beauty to be seen as true? I write, I bleed, Yet I feel it isn't real. Does this make me a ***poet***, Or a dreamer at my lowest? Still I let my heart soar — Clinging to this fading dream, It is now my worth, my battle, my war. But each passing day I wonder, Am I a ***poet*** — Or a lost soul longing to be remembered?