A poet suffers for his art
For they well know their darkest part
With Ink as black, as pain is red
The pages soak, as they have bled.
How deep the chasm of anguished words
So chosen with the thought it girds
A place where one relives the day -
And moments, most do stay away.
They pen for readers whom; have known
The worsened side the heart has shown
That he, or she need not regress
To where the glow of souls is less.
This marriage of a poet's dreams -
To page can be the hearted screams
Thus poets dwell; exhuming scars
For art, for words, least not; the stars.