A poet’s soul,
Is neither kind nor forgiving.
We have been hardened by life,
And moulded by its strife.
These are things we are not born with, but acquire:
Eyes that reek of judgement,
Tongue bitter from the taste of truth,
And an imagination that defies gravity.
These are things we do not dread, but desire:
Nights devoid of sleep,
Passion that burns a hole through your heart,
And a mind that obeys no one.