Hands of a Poet

I never was meant to become a poet, however destiny was eager. They clapped of what they call ' poems.' That I had written, but do they know? What's behind the written? Behind of each stanzas they praised for? They call me clever, yet I don't I am. I only write poems because I am broken as a shattered glass. I never knew what becoming a poet was, I never knew why they praised my talent. But in that piece of paper written inside it is just a broken heart, a shattered and dread ones. They read my poems like turning pain into pretty words like these were some kind of magic trick, but do they know? What anger and wrath was in it? Do they know the story? Handwritten magical, fantastical words or what they call it. They call me good in words, but do they know that I am good in words just because I am pained? Every line of words bleeds not ink but my soul bleeds, I had no option to do, but, write and write until I am drained, I didn't want to become a writer but I had no choice, no option nothing! But write! I had to bury my pain into these called magestic art, or what they call majestic art of poems. My hands are the ones that are talented yet my heart is the one that is dread.