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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