It seethes through souls, squeezes, cuts, chokes.
Teardrops become ink, into pen, then kisses paper.
Pain grips the poet, then sets free
The hand that writes with heart, oh! love-maker.
Ever appreciated pain after you have written a poem and set yourself free? Now i can exhale...
Wrote this three months ago, starting a discussion under Poetry in MyLot.com.
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