I didn't know poets can be so cynical
when he gazes upon the rose
he sees only the beauty that benefits him
but the thorns
remain a tragic muse

I didn't know poets can be so depressing
that a beauty of the sunset he chases
only to leave angry in the dark
because even the sunset could not inspire
a single gold worthy word in his blank pages

He doesnt know if he is a poet
or if he lies to make stories
until he can lie with such grace
nothing of his is him
he is a nothing, making himself to be something.