it is we
who feel harder
                    deeper
                           sharper
that are capable of
chiseling out what
exactly this thing called
     human emotion
is

it is we
whose waves of regret
do not crash and dissipate
on the shores of our fingertips
reaching out for the dear
friend we once had,

rather,
they burst forth and
splash sestinas
across the annals of history

it is we
whose storm of anger
at him
does not abate after
pillows, hairdryers, fists
and words
are tossed by passion,
flung by fury.
nor is it cooled by the gentle stream
of tears that follow.
its spark burns freely
through the tomes of all ages

it is we
whose river of love
does not gently babble
into the ear of our beloved alone,
but shouts it from the mountaintops,
pouring its ecstasy
with sonnets and songs
on the unfortunate souls down below
who have not made the climb

it is we
whose pain won't subside
until it is bled out with pen onto paper
it is we
whose joy pierces the page,
pierces the mind, pierces
the stone, which
some might call a heart

it is we
it is we

it is we who write.