A poet sitting quiet

Reflecting on their day

Thinking of what they've seen

Heard or played a part

Knows what the world's about,

I think we see

More clearly than any

That which remains hidden

To blind sheep

Breed only to sustain

A dying race of hope,

There are colours

That only poets see,

Shinning or dusty

But still seen

By those with eyes

That penetrate the dark of life

In the end it's left to us

To write about these things

The pain which engulfs all

Driving many insane,

Yet it's the madness

Which creats such beauty,

Every tear compressed in love

Every pain cared for

Nourished till it turns to joy,

But it is still left to those

Whos pen strokes paper

Caresses every word

Falls in love and despair

With every finished piece,

Puts all their heart

In writting truth

Though it shows the darkest

In every soul they meet,

This is a poets pain,

Ability to see through lies

To spin tales

That make you laugh and cry,

This is a poets pain

Knowledge, savoir,

Something which can never

Be ignored, festering

In their heart

Causing words to blur

And structure fall apart
This is a poets pain...