A poet’s legacy

I regurgitate my mess of a mind on a blank piece of paper, plating it on the plate that is my canvas, only for me to beg. I beg someone, anyone, to analyse these bits of my soul, which i lay out so carefully and vulnerably, ending up with me begging for scraps. I beg you. I cry out for you to devour it.

‘Read it, see it, understand it. It needs to have meaning. I need to have meaning. Im nothing without this!’

 I scream into an endless void that daunts and beckons me.

‘For a poet is nothing without a reader to give it meaning.’