You can not speak the language of poetry to someone who doesn't hinder the ability to open themselves up for pain
Because words can encase feelings much more advanced than one can care to give credit for
You can not speak the language of poetry to someone whose heart is still whole, and does not withhold scars across the flesh
As beautiful as poetry may seem, it carries burdens, and hurt throughout the lines it sits on
You can not speak the language of poetry to someone who can not find the saint within the sin, nor the sin within the saint  
As to speak the language is to know the language inside and out, and for that you have to accept good and bad inhabit together
You can not speak the language of poetry to someone who is ignorant to its rawness which causes it to obtain its own type of irresistibility
Because to speak the language of poetry you must first allow yourself to feel it all
The gentleness a smile can portray
The saltiness that tears contain
And for the innocent blood to be bleed in order to be healed
Feeling is what makes poetry come alive
To from its own kind of lullaby by the beats your heart creates
As your pour every inch of your soul into the pages you hold
Reminding you every second, minute, hour and day that you are alive
As sonnets hide beneath the scars that frame your delicate heart
Fitting perfectly into a box labelled as fragile
As your lungs begin to feel heavy, having to take deeper breaths
Which as started to become as easy as picking the pen that's almost ran out has
Because you can not speak the language of poetry,
While you spend your whole life escaping from it all,
Hiding between the very pages your bury your head in,
And allow all your thoughts to scatter and form words on paper
Ink that dries, alongside your tears and your heart which bleeds
You can not speak the language of poetry, until you feel
You can not speak the language of poetry, until you feel it all
The good, the bad and everything in between
Let it in, to let it go.