Poets are all sadists masquerading as the avant-garde

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Writing of beauty
in the face of adversity
ethereal words
transcendental pain
 
How we overcome
the evil of others
baring our souls
naked and unafraid
 
Look at me
suffering for these words
on good days
writing of agony
 
On the bad days
reveling in the morass
of entropy
mining pain
conveying despondency
 
The thought
what a bunch of masochists
look deeper
sharing just enough
to elicit shattered hopes
often written in blood
 
misery loves company
is such a crock
what poems are rewarded
and which ones panned
love poems boor us
needing sadness and sorrow
 
Oh, what a write,, you're so brave,
a shining light in the face of tragedy
give us more
and more and more
addicted to emotional destruction
 
Poets are all sadists
masquerading as the avant-garde