The writer

I grow up a solid poem by his hands.
In the poem, I'm a prisoner to my own words,
too small for a sight of the sky,
this is how deep he can see me inside,
my thoughts carved to stone walls.

I write about the writer, he laughs
and the sound of his laughter is the
only sound I know, a leak on my soul
he comes through. As lonely as I am,
I enjoy his stay.