Two spirits attached in imperceptible strings,
Blinded by the world, selflessly their hearts they shove;
Impatient, hopeful, and driven by persistent thoughts,
What for is the poet if he cannot write love?
Saline tears rolling down arid cheeks,
Followed by this sentiment of nothing to lose, nothing to gain;
Like mere oblivion nowhere to reach,
What for is the poet if he cannot write pain?
Constant regrets, constant remorse, constant pounding lungs,
Longing for a chance for a fresh life to build;
Anxiously peeking through murderous eyes,
What for is the poet if he cannot write guilt?
As gay as a frog on a showery day,
Even a man desiring to be coy;
Bypassing the dreads of the universe,
What for is the poet if he cannot write joy?
Sheer terror, shady mind, and on edge,
The ground pulling me down, while the roots volunteer;
About to depart, determining to end it all,
What for is the poet if he cannot write fear?
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