Poets are children who didn’t make it
As the night falls and the moon rises
Pens scurry down on paper
Like it’s a matter of life and death
A small fire starts ink on paper
The black fades
Melting into distorted fingers
Frustrated the metaphors won’t form
Tear drops grace the page
And say everything words never could
But you can’t publish a tear drop
You must find a way
To be creative and original
Breakaway from the overflowing cup
That is a writer’s pool
Though poets are not writers
Feeders of the heart and soul
But of a different kind