A Poet’s Lament; Or Perhaps A Tribute To His Artistry

Blades have torn the fabric of his mind,
Have cut his skin and left blood pouring,
But he doesn’t wallow over his misery,
Doesn’t turn to substances to numb pain,
Doesn’t smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol,
Doesn’t bottle up his emotions to the world–

He scratches and scrapes his wounds
Keeping the scarlet blood vibrant with life
He lets his tears cascade like heavy raindrops
Watering the grass, evergreens, and roses
That blossom in an olive spring of healing
He mixes old memories into this potion–

–This potion from which he dips his pen into
And writes cherished poetry of what his tragedy has come to