Monday, April 11, 2011

Day 34, Sonnet 34

They say that writers write their livéd truth,

For it is that which drives them to despair

The regrets of their age; sorrows of youth

These are the tales that poets must declare.

But words on pages cannot be retrieved

Once thrust into another’s waiting hands

And one can often be crudely deceived:

For cruel words can burn like brutal brands.

But e’en in spite of pain, truth must come out

For kept within, it kills one’s very soul

It starves the poet’s voice in cruel drought

And buries speech into a blackened hole.

Write on, though words like knives may cut and bleed

And let your life through written speech be freed.

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