There are two types of poets:
First, the blessed ones—
poems come naturally to them,
like opening the floodgates of a dam.
For them, it is an organic process.
For the second group, things are not easy;
each poem is a struggle,
each one wrenches a piece of their heart,
like plucking petals from a red tulip.
Writing becomes steeped in loss, pain, and blood.
Yet they write for the joy of creation—
a pleasure in their pain,
a gain in their loss.
Each poem consumes a piece of their heart.
As they write, their heart bleeds and shrinks.
When they write their last poem, there is nothing left.
That day, they stop writing.
That day, they stop living.
They pass on, leaving their legacy—
a body of poems wrought from blood
and broken pieces of their heart.
