I always notice one thing about poets
You are all nostalgic
Not in a way that you want to be a child again
No
In a way you wished you had skipped over the thing that has given this art to you

Name one poet who was happy
Their suffering is used as a fuel for the world
So the world can admire the broken pieces of you
But they never dare to come close

Dearest poets,

Why do you hurt yourself?
Or rather why do you hate yourself?
The readers won't notice the bloody pages
Neither will your muse
They will light any candle even if it has a dying fuse

Why do you hurt yourself?
Or rather when did your courage to love disappear
Your courage to love is written on the ivory white blankets that will be your deathbed
Your courage is gone
Your rage is not something to sell
So you will cry again

The exstatic periods of love poems
The ones who you hold to your heart
As they discover how damaged you are
Shield them with the fragile paper
And shield them with your strong words

They leave again
Making your art extraordinary
Untill society decides
There is no such thing as a happy poet
only a bad one

Rip open your stitches
Tear out your tears
Let go of your blood
Because otherwise you won't be good enough
Be as damaged as you can
Or damage yourself

For a moment I want to admire the hope in us
We don't write because of the pain
We write to explain
The pain to others so they can learn without experience
We have the fragile hope our words explain why the world isn't happy
We are foolish
We are naive
But we were the victims
Society is the thief

dear poets
We want a perfect poem
We want a perfect love
We want a perfect life
but maybe all we should ask for is one good day

So at the end of the road
When you have given up
I wish for you
And I even know
That one person will pick up your poetry
Study its pages and think
I would have the courage to love them

And maybe that would be the truth