We who like poetry,
We who read these heartbreaking tidings.
We are quite the voyeurs:
Witnessing the silent struggle of our fellow poets,
While they wear their "heart on their sleeve".

While they open their heart and pour their suffering
Too honestly to be good,
Too ambiguously to be known,
Too blue to be shared,
But strong enough it can be felt.

It ain't easy to write of your own demise,
And yet you will only talk of these things to the blank page:
Who won't judge, nor bring advise.
Just a release, just a way to express ourselves, that staring page,
Expectant to be carved with our confessions, with our heart:
A love vampire.

And as a friend of mine says:
"Unrequited love is the best food for a poet's soul"
Yet it's bitter no end, yet it's saddening no end.
As a friend of mine says:
"Poets are faded blue"
Yet it's hard to lose all joy, be colorblind.
You don't write to feel good,
You write 'cause you feel bad.

And we who like poetry,
Seek in those lines ourselves,
We rejoice on finding there
A phrase or two that tell
That we're not alone
And that others
Suffer too.