The thing we poets have all been at before.
The thing that takes our creativity and throws It out the window.
The thing that disables us from saying what we truly mean.
Yet we always find a way.

The blacksmith raises their hammer to shape and bend the metal to their will, to make something for creating or destroying in their hands, whether it is iron for a flower or steel for a sword, like poetry. They can choose.

Sometimes the brightest light is also the darkest...
And sometimes, the darkest light is also the brightest.

Fame, the thing most of us want dear, yet some of us aren't able to
reach it, and they are left down here.
~
Fame, the thing most of us want dear, yet those who don't, somehow make
it there from down here.
~
Fame, the thing most of us want dear, yet those who get it, are usually
always in a fuss.
~
Fame, the thing most of want dear, but not me, because I'm fine
just down here.