For the group that is notoriously almost synonymous with
lost or troubled.
For my people-
the poets and the lost.
For my friends who can’t seem to speak with
eloquence,
yet pour out their soul on paper,
who spell out their heart in ink.
For anyone who uses a pen as their medium
and words as their art form.
For those whose blood turns to ink
or words on a bright screen piercing through the dark.
For those whose eyes glaze over as their minds furiously enact a story
or piece together just the right phrasing.
For those that are only okay and constantly exhausted.
For those that mutter, “I don’t think I can,”
or “I’m just tired.”
For those with a firm grip on insanity and caffeine.
For those who make plans but rarely follow through.
For those who too often hear,
“Stop worrying,”
“It’ll be okay,”
and “I don’t know how to help.”
Or “You have to let it go,”
“Just go with it,”
and “It doesn’t matter.”
For those with tired eyes, blank faces, and rare, genuine smiles.
For frazzled insomniacs or narcoleptics.
For those who laugh too loud but often stay silent.
For those huddled in blankets in bedrooms,
in corners observing the outside world.
For those who love small settings
and avoid large gatherings like the plague.
For the worriers and the wanderers seeking to find themselves
in a perfect combination
of letters.
For the groups that seem to go together
like a typewriter and frustration;
or a pen and paper.
For my people-
the poets and the lost.
~SES
