Maybe it's even worse
when people compliment my poetry
Saying things like
that was so beautiful, and
you are so talented
Because there is nothing
******* beautiful about ripping
apart your heart and looking
for something, for anything to find
worth not hating
And it takes no talent to sit in solitude
and think and think and think
until the only place for you to
put the words you can't speak is onto
some crumpled up piece of paper
And they wonder why all poets live lives
full of love but more of loss
Living breathing and eventually dying
for someone who burned like the sun
and stung like frost.