We are forever trapped in our thoughts
bounded on our feet, straight up to our chin
but amidst this, our hands lie free
free to scribble down pain, sizzling out of our hearts
the world seeks the greyness of the poet
for when he dies, every strand of wisdom is preserved
but whilst he is alive, who listens to his aching groans?
for only he attests to his lost virtues
I have seen a poet cry
not by the tears that trickles out of the eyes
but of many drops of words caressing deserted sheets.
In the confines of his temperament
he subdues lingering slurs
with his pen, he writes every wrong
and paints them blue
till every lurking hurt glows with a blur
and is hidden from the prying eyes of the mind’s eye.