Poetry springs,
Sometimes
From broken wings,
Shattered dreams,
Bruised knees and
Crippled hopes

While at other times
From joyous highs,
Victorious tunes,
Long- stretched smiles and
Reaffirmed beliefs

But the finest of the poetry emerges
From the darkest of the nights,
The toughest of the terrains
When any light seems impossible
And the only light,
The only hope, one has is
A pen in the hand
And poetry in the mind.