There is the poet who writes
Of broken hearts,
Love gone right and awry,
Then there is a poet who tells
Of lonely days,
Life's litte mysteries,
Another poet still will sing
Of beauty in nature's glory,
Of the seasons and roses,
The last poet will hardly be one at all
Not the most lyrical
Writing a soliloquy
From pondering love to moonlit nights
This poet will drown in thoughts
If you be a poet ask yourself one thing,
What do I leak?
Blood or poetry