poetry is fine for thoughtful people,
thinkers, readers and the like;
such emotions are the trigger,
for thunder and the lightning strike.

lost love, depression and elation,
the many moods are spread like ink;
the catharsis we need to go on living,
changing as we rise and sink.

we put in words our discontent,
or the regal high of happiness;
we stumble over bits of phrases,
and sometimes make a mess.

But we're  survivors of the last word,
and we write on with wicked verse;
and if it isn't to our liking,
then we'll howl and probably curse.

Yet in the end we come out stronger,
content with just to have a voice;
all we've to blame is our ourselves,
for we're the ones that made the choice.