This is a poem about writing poems, when lonely and broken these notes seem to hold him. When happy and open he’s lacking the notion. When laughing when hope comes, when past deeds don’t show up, his craft leaves its so dumb like lapsing devotion.
Without any anger without any grudge. He puts pen to paper but the pen just wont budge.
But instantly pens will leap stricken with rage. It sickens me how quick he’s writin a page.
As a student of light and a master of dark. Its prudent to write from both poles of the heart. Til his brain has a talent for more than just grief, he will train for a balance endorcing his peace.