I ask myself why do I write poems about him?
Most of the poems are the truth that stuck in my mind like a vault.
A vault wishing none of it came out of my mouth.
Every time I pick up a pencil I feel like the artist, and he is the muse that will always represent.
I may give him two at once, but I still have more here.
Some are published; some are in a contest.
At the end of the day the poems about him will always be unknown.
