Poets see life through a unique lens and are trapped contemplating mortality. They weave hope and meaning from reason, treason, and the seasons. Poets see that people hurry through life to places they don't want to go, and use their writing to help others. They know inspiration is fleeting but the thirst for understanding keeps them creating. Poets see both the beauty and pain in the world and try to convey these truths to help others through difficult times.
Poets see life through a unique lens and are trapped contemplating mortality. They weave hope and meaning from reason, treason, and the seasons. Poets see that people hurry through life to places they don't want to go, and use their writing to help others. They know inspiration is fleeting but the thirst for understanding keeps them creating. Poets see both the beauty and pain in the world and try to convey these truths to help others through difficult times.
Poets see life through a unique lens and are trapped contemplating mortality. They weave hope and meaning from reason, treason, and the seasons. Poets see that people hurry through life to places they don't want to go, and use their writing to help others. They know inspiration is fleeting but the thirst for understanding keeps them creating. Poets see both the beauty and pain in the world and try to convey these truths to help others through difficult times.
Looking at life through a vision beam Stuck in a slow-motion car crash Knowing that they are going to die But taking the effort to see just how they do. Poets weave hope onto Reason, Treason, Seasons, A basket full of sins, A pocketful of tears you wipe the slate with, A fistful of sunshine you burn the candle with, Because they see we’ve all been wrapped in the wrong box of emotions, hurrying to reach destinations we don't want to go to, And that the purple sky you love Is just you remembering the deep purple bruise on your mother’s shoulders, Because they’ve seen the way your car’s tyres Sniffle out the air And you drive fixated at the shotgun seat, still and fair Not noticing the curve And drive off the cliff, Dead soon, But in love. Poets know that sometimes the sun won’t be able to cut through the fog, That inspiration is drop-dead gorgeous but deadbeat, That the way out is not drawn on map But the thirst to make it easier better surer Is tattooed inside their eyelids Maybe that's how they know the twilight is not a dawn but it is a promise, Of an arrival, Of a goodbye. Poets know that we’re all hollow bones and blank smiles, with spines probably made of licorice, with wings like that of a moth, too scared to sprout, with fists in our mouth, afraid of saying the truth, but feel it ripping open our insides suffering yes, but in silence. Poets see the poem you’re living In all the colours the white splits into, Watching which one scars you, Which one touches you, Which one gives you, A moment for yourself, Noting it down somewhere Just so they could help you When you go to a wishing well. See they know the wind whispers us names, the mirror shows us who, the road leads us there, the rain washes the pain away, So don’t you ever think The path that you’re on gets lonely. And if you think poets are scared to remain forgotten Know that you never knew who they were in the first place It is you It is I It is she It is he It is they It is them It is here It is there It is now It was never.