Nothing fuels a poet
More than the whispers of dismay,
The falling tears of sadness,
The pain of everyday.
Nothing fuels a poet
More than wings that cannot fly,
A love that did not last,
Or eyes that never dry
Nothing stops the ink
Leaking from the pen
Not the thumb that’s aching
Not the calls to come to bed
You cannot save poets
Whose hands were built to write
You can only watch grimly
And hope their works turn bright.
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