How terrible it is

to be a poet

to thirst for words

but your fountain is dry

the hunger for paper

the itch for ink

stained on your fingertips

the whirlwind inside

wanting to escape

onto the blank sheet

when pain gnaws at your soul

yet cannot be expressed

but it must come out

it must be released

How terrible it is to be a poet.


How easy it is

to rhyme a few lines

but does your poem have soul?

does it ignite a spark

in the heart of the reader?

can it touch the minds

of the uninspired

and lead them into this world?

Tell me, what is the emotion

hidden within

these words?

after all they're only

meaningless words

until you give them life

And oh, how easy it seems.


How hidden it is

the youth of today

hide their art

and lock it away

let it see the light

let it breathe the air

and exhale into the souls

of others gathered around

we were given this gift to share

call me a romantic

call me hopeful

but all will see in time

what glory comes

when your work is released

Because of how hidden it was.


How solemn it is

the life of a poet

alone in a room with

the tools of the trade

scattered across the floor

they pour out their heart

onto that thin white canvas

praying someone will read

and understand

their language

their story is intertwined

like a vine tangled on branches

why don't they understand?

How solemn it is.