The poet is...me

Broken,
Am I.
I write,
as I'm in shambles,
thinking of what I lost.
How I lost it.
Why I lost it.
And yet...
Some would say it's what makes a poet a poet.

The keyboard of my fingers is warm,
To the very touch,
As my sweltering hands type for you,
The reader,
To possibly enjoy.

I try to pull you through your screen,
Into my life.
Into my shoes,
Hoping that you may one day feel what I feel.
Not to condemn you,
But to send you on a further plateau of writing.

I write,
The passion of my finger revitalizing and warming my keyboard,
The warmth of my keyboard heating my blood,
Scalding my palms,
Boiling the water that is upon it.
It's no ordinary water.
It has a very high saline content.
Something that only a poet or scientist would analyze.

The feverent drops bead and roll of the body of my laptop.
They say ignorance is true bliss...
And yet I can never achieve it.
I'll never achieve bliss,
Because I cannot forget what I know,
What I feel,
How I feel.

I love,
As a poet.
I die,
As a poet.
I am,
Forever,
A poet.