Here’s to the poets
who died a thousand times
and lived millions more—
who danced with rhymes
until their hands feel sore;

Who rewrote the stars
and found beauty in scars,
who romanticized the moon
and found poetry in tunes;

Who blew kisses in the wind
And felt a love left unseen—
A ghost of a romantic scene,
Embers of what could’ve been;

Who found hope in nothingness
and beauty in one’s madness—
Who saw mediocrity in greatness
as they strive for more goodness;

Who took coffee at the rising morn,
And stole kisses with corny love letters,
Sung like bards mad as the pied piper,
Fell in love and became jealous of Heather.

Here’s to the poets
who got lost in transition,
in the world of ink and paper,
in the phantasms of poetic allusion,
in the warmth and cold of December,
in the reveries of literary composition,
in the need to write history to remember
and to those who got lost in fascination—

May you all be remembered by the world
as the pages of our history remain untold;
Melt what’s frozen, bring warmth to the cold.
Keep crying for literature, be poetic and bold.

Thank you for giving me a loving home
When I thought I was meant to be alone,
For giving me a shelter during the storm
'Til I learned how to survive by my own.

Because one day our breath will cease
And no longer shall we bleed poignant ink—
Let the stars fall as the pen and paper kiss,
Write your last poetry before it sinks.