A poet heeds his aching needs;
if not, his heart would grow a hole.
His sorrow bleeds ... his spirit leads.
A poet's pen must bear his soul.
When pains emerge and lightnings surge
in violent storms he can't control,
there comes an urge to delve and purge.
A poet's pen must bear his soul.
He spills each word so cries unheard
can leak their blood upon a page.
His soul is stirred ― a fiery bird
ascends its wings beyond pain's cage.
It's not mere ash from flaming rage,
but diamonds squeezed from blackest coal
that gleam their brilliance on a stage.
A poet's pen must bear his soul.