These poems you can only write
when the suffering is just right.
If life is too easy and good
like what life in heaven should be,
happy and free, you would
never be able to write again.

Your heart must bleed a little,
The sorrow seeping out slowly.
Your thoughts turning into this brittle
manifestation that dissolves readily in ink,
and becoming a stream of words on paper,
narrating all that you feel and think.

But if the tear in your heart is too great,
the flow of sorrow flooding the moat,
the voice in your mind will suffocate,
gasping for air and grasping its throat.
And while it wails and twitches,
destroying whatever bridges
lay between your pen and repentance,
the ink will drop freely and smear
before it reaches the final sentence.

Where heaven is too good to be true,
Hell is to too much of a burden to bear.
You are the purgatory poet,
living halfway between happiness and despair.