To any reader who reads.

A poetic weave of words is what I spin,
Of fantasy of reality and of sin,
I tell you of hope, love, and, and the lustful look of a whore,
And I lecture you on violence, hatred, and the brutalities of war.
You read with interest, or you read in a daze,
But you read never the less and manage a meaning in it's haze.

I speak of what you in your heart already know and believe to be true,
Yet you speak of what I wrote as if it tells of something new.
You tell me of how impressed you are,
And of how for the writer I keeps razing the bar.
You praise me as a poet,
And I thank you, but I know not how to show it.

So this is for you and all that you do.
For the laughs you give, and the tears too.
This is for the hope you show to me,
And the truth that is as it may be.
And all that I write know that they are a result of you,
And all the amazing things that you do.