Us poets,
We perforate the darkness within us
with the light of the Sun.
Soak ourselves in melancholy
like a worn out sponge
and call it inspiration.
Spite like a trail of gunpowder
lit with mad passion
and fulminate onto a piece of paper
tranfused from the nooks of our hearts,
white turns red
coarse in red,
red with lingering passion.

Into
Something digestible
for discening eyes
thoroughly wayward among wilted leaves
vagrant souls with their mouths
stitched because of
the dolour of misunderstanding
hissing with the wind in search
of something or someone
to relate to.

We make it seem like we're not so alone in this world.