A poet suffers for his part;
In penning that which stains his heart
With Ink as black as pain is red
The pages soak as they have bled.
How deep the chasm of anguished words
So chosen with the thought it girds,
A place where one relives the day -
Or moments, most dare - not relay.
They pen for readers whom have known
The worsened side the heart has shown
That he, or she need not regress
To where the glow of soul is less.
The pages are a poet's scream
The rhyme is rhyme without the scheme,
Thus poets dig; exhuming scars
For art, for words, least not the stars.
