III. Poets’ curse
March 14, 2025 at 5:31 AM
When it hurts as ribs are breaking,
And the throat is squeezed as by rope,
There is only way for surviving,
Only pleasure for poet, and hope,
Is to take the pen or the pencil
And cry all of the rhymes on the paper,
Alowing the pain to soak in
And then disappear like vapor.
With the blood of a broken heart,
Someone’ll blow the immortal today
This is the poets’ curse -
Write things they’re unable to say
To the one who does not even care
And surely doesn’t deserve.
This is the poets’ blessing -
Transform suffering into the oeuvre.