Does this poet
put down his pen?
Dark sadness grips tight,
tearing his skin.

Ripping his heart out,
buries his soul.
Feeling all tortured
and taking it all.

Looking about,
at all of the gloom.
Stirs up the ***,
sweeping his broom.

His mind is a mess,
seeking an answer.
Alone in the parlor,
with no private dancer.

His ink had dried up
and his pages were heavy.
One lasting poem,
come home, nice and steady.