Poems
They bring men to tears
They are a way to express our fears
Bring light to the dying soul
Give hope to even the worst of fouls
Or so we think
They are just made of ink
They fade in a blink of an eye
They can be filled with lyes
For it is not the words that should make you care
For poetry is something rare
It is not a gift given to just one
And a poem is never truly done
It is the heart of the beast
And they come when you finally let it speak