Poets never lie, never keep secrets.

They always find ways to reveal things.

If you only look closely,

Everything you will see.

From their smile every dawn

To their cry every sundown,

From their laugh every morning

To their sob every evening,

All are written on their papers.

Using rhymed and unrhymed words

If you're only analyzing their works,

You will know them deeply

And understand them surely.

They make wonderful pieces,

Behind those are bruises.

The melodic tone of their poems

Are the pains behind the vizard.

Every positive word they write.

Are from their pained hearts.

They never want to be pitied

Rather, wanted to be heard.

Every truth, they write.

Every piece is a secret.
So do keep it,

Most especially if you're not a poet!

It was already 7 in the morning
And here I am, still contemplating.
I wonder what's about life
That I want to end it with a knife.

I had never been a pessimist
These voices that I can't resist.
Telling me to move on and die,
A wonderful life's nothing but a lie.

But the Voice clinging inside my head
Has never wanted me to be dead.
I looked upon this haze of illusion
And saw this Man full of salvation.

He told me that I'm never worthless,
"You are precious though priceless."
He told me good things that I've done
And told me to never be gone.

Alas, I thought. Who'd this Man be?
His words are leading me to curiosity.
Regardless, his words are pure and true
And He had come surely for my rescue.