The Poet

                       I
                      Cry.
                    Hurting
                  Asking why!
                 The trees die,
                I ask, why not I?
               Death so wonderful.
              Long life but a scare,
             To poetry I turn always,
            crying away all the tears.
           Blackness in my heart, it is
          ever becoming with every date.
           The funny poet hides the pain.
            The dark poet shows the pain,
             Skill now coming from pain.
              This is how I see it all.
               How the poet writes all
                is through true pain;
                 pain is true skill,
                  life is just only
                   the guide. Love
                    brings it all
                     to him now.
                      Death is
                       always
                         me.