Loneliness be their dole,
For they have an old soul.
Always the odd one out in a gathering,
The shy one, seen in the corner doodling.
Bags under eyes,
For they’ve cried all night.
They blame it on the writer’s block
To hid their insomnia behind locks.
The darkness of their pasts and their mind,
They use their poetry to leave this behind.
Yet to bleed on paper and to bleed true
They need to dig into their wounds anew.
They hurt themselves by tapping their hidden emotions,
But what can they do, for poetry is devotion.
To heal themselves by the magic of verses,
They must bear through an over emotional heart and its curses.
To take a word and create some magic,
They need to use their story tragic.
For they expose themselves and bare their hearts.
They need to let their demons consume them over and over,
Using their stories of an abusive childhood or a jilted lover.
They walk alone even in crowds,
Their hearts feel at peace in silences loud.
Yet, their poetry you can never forget,
For they gave it their soul, these poets.
© Sneha P [ Rights Reserved]