We drown ourselves in an ocean of grief,
Reaching it’s unfathomable abyss.
We fill a cup of it’s dark viscous sludge,
With that ink, we write, we rhyme and we trudge
Over the paper off-white.
We find ourselves awake in long nights too,
With a burning heart we light our dark rooms,
We give birth to a piece, to give us peace:
Slow heart beats, hands trembling, eyes teary,
On verge of insanity.
We fall short of words sometimes, we do fail,
So we cut our wrists and watch the blood shape
A sentence of our lovely poetry,
Yes, we know all this, and we still love it.
It’s the only way we live.