He wakes at dawn with ink-stained hands,
a mind ablaze yet feet in sand.
Each word he scrawls a fleeting spark
devoured whole before it’s dark.
He writes of love, he writes of death.
He writes of time, he writes of breath.
Yet none recall the lines he bleeds.
A poet’s fate: no one reads.
He claims the muse whispers tight,
He howls, “Oh! I must write!”
Yet every verse’s a hollow cry,
a caged bird aiming just to fly.
And still he scribbles, mad and proud,
his voice lost beneath the crowd.
For poets ink the world with pain
and drown alone inside their rain.
Oh, my goodness, YES!
We do ink the world with pain.
The last line is true also.
WE are… Love to you!
This is so true! It always seems to me that nobody loves poetry except poets. And we couldn’t breathe if we couldn’t write…
Thanks my dear.
Beautifully penned, PAR. Into the book it belongs! The life of a writer my friend, you described it perfectly. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian. Love to you always.
We live for it. We bleed words & ink. Excellent piece my friend. Always………
We do, my beloved friend.