Not hard to make a poet cry,
He is already about emotions.
Tears race inside his soul
To find the outlet of expression.
He can already see
With his keen eyes,
The pointlessness of the thing you hold dear,
How when you tighten up your grip,
You end up suffocating it to death.
How you have a vague idea of love,
And whatever it is supposed to mean,
You are only learning life from movies,
And you have someone because people often have,
That a life without one is a sin,
Isn’t it a win-win if you learn to live without?
Nobody gets hurt when you are alone,
You save everyone from you,
Coz love turns you into a monster.
All good things come with a tragedy,
And you have been asking for it your whole life.
He is more human than all the emotionless combined,
And he sees things for what they are,
He shows you a piece of world
You fail to see,
And warns you about the pit ahead,
But you jump anyway,
For its a powerful herd
You are proud of.
He brings meaning to every act,
Has a brain he grows on his own,
Builds pieces of beauty with pieces of himself,
Looks for his purpose in life,
Reasons with the ways of the world
Before committing to a life,
Fills feelings in the voids of the stony,
With words that are not just some man’s privilege,
And thoughts that are everyone’s mansion.
He is, after all, a poet.