My notebook has been empty of late
My mind in a similar state
For not a word I could find
Not a rhyme in my mind
No I've not written a poem to date

I have a question for the aristocrats of the present
Tell me, what is it like to look down at us peasants?
To never have to worry about how much you make
Or at the end of the year how much the government will take?
How does it feel to never think about what you spend
Or shamefully ask for money from a friend?
How does it feel to never have a low balance text
Then to keep yourself up with worry and regret?
What's it like to never see a negative sign
Then to stress whether or not you can pay the fine?
What is it like to only buy organic veggies and fruits
And to shop for lavish dresses and fancy new suits?
Have you ever known the pain of overdue rent
And the threat of eviction from the letter that was sent?
Or what about minimum wage, do you know what it's like
To still be poverty with two jobs that won't suffice?
Have you ever had to buy generic instead of the name
Even though we all know it's not one in the same?
How can you say money can't make you smile
When it completely decides our lifestyle?
Money decides a life of pain or ease
To drown in your stress or carry away on the breeze
Appreciate what you have, but don't you dare say
That money isn't everything, because it controls us in every way

A monotone painting of a city
Sepia tones in the light
The lifeless hues of the day
Will fade with the coming of night
For when the dark takes over
The Night People come out to play
And with them all sorts of vibrant hues
Invisible to the eye in the sun's ray
They race down the streets with their paints
Their brushes in the opposite hand
And they sling the paint upon the walls
With colours so wondrous and grand
A rave over here, a bar over there
A twenty four hour arcade
Street lamps a plenty to light up the night
So that no one will ever be afraid
The children will sleep and the adults will rest
But the young and the restless will run
For this is their time, this is their home
Awake they'll stay until the sun

Who are you?
The you we keep writing about,
We- the poets; poets around the world,
Across time immemorial and
space immeasurable,
We write about you,
We shape your skeleton
With the strength of all the pain
We've borne, and we sculpt your flesh
With the wistful beauty of our tears,
We bring you to life with our words
Make them course through your body
Like blood,
Who are you?

The cry of our first heartbreak?
The joy of a lover's return?
The stunning silence of absolute loneliness?
Of turmoil and torment, the stinging burn?

You're all of the above,
and more- profoundly more,
You're a piece of every poet's heart,
Infinite power, immense emotion,
You are the cumulative of every drop of blood
The poet has shed through their pen
You are the story that stays stifled inside
the confines of paper, until someone comes along
And unlatches your locks,
Absorbs the burden of the poet's grief,
And at that moment, brings you to the form in
which you had been intended to be.

It is then, that you, the very essence,
the very soul of the poet,
Can take flight, blissfully relieved,
When you are read, your creator is finally free.