Poetry doesn’t know about things I’ve done, yet it tells my stories. I’ve seen children grow and falling snow-I’ve smelt rain brew and fowl things too. I’ve tasted cotton candy melting on my tongue. I’ve heard the outraged cries of both old and young. I’ve felt the sun on my face and the warmth of a loved one’s embrace. I’ve heard glee as he took home base; the gathering by the fire place; sending my thoughts into cyberspace. I write these experiences in verse, as paints did for Van Gough. But still, poetry can never know. There are things I have seen that cannot be unseen. Like the time I held death close to me, and I cried selfishly, because from the pain they were finally free; and mine had just begun. The taste of momma’s cooking and dad’s buñuelos on New Year’s Eve-those are simple things you cannot concieve how much I grieve. I know they are dying, last leaves are falling. I can hear the defence and prossecution but no solution. I feel the flame I put to my pain, just to see if it will burn-in hope my emotional injuries will set ablaze. But the truth is, we will never be healthy. I feel his heartbeat next to me and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. However, there is only one heartbeat inside of me, causing sadness to crawl in my skin. This is who I am. So no offense, poetry, but there is no way you could possibly understand.