Let the poets write, we lament.
Nails and thorns become a metaphor. I've never really suffered,
I admit quietly. There's guilt in that admission.
And guilt becomes suffering.
Those poets are never heard. And we
long to hear them.
So young, stupid and pretty. So self-confident with the ability to say
what needs to be heard. So self aware to know too much is said. So
foolish to not realize tomorrow's memories are being made today.
So intelligent, stubborn and enigmatic. So proud of the unaccomplished,
forgot to say it's not over. So deluded to think everything will
improve. So ashamed that stage was absent of my words.
So unaffectionate, stoic and
misunderstood. So distant as she brings me dinner. So loud
nothing is heard. So disconnected from that kind of love.
Sex and love become a proverb. Discernment, a lost art, we
lament. And the artist stares calmly into the empty eyes of his muse.
Let the artist paint, we lament.
There's wisdom behind each stroke of the brush.
Kinda felt kind enough to not run past my
reflection. Into yours.
Kinda felt anonymous isn't as safe as once thought. Kinda felt safe
inside your unspoken words. Your implied feelings. Kinda felt
kind enough to accept them.
The poets know what I say. They know
what I think.
Let them write, we lament.
