Spiritual pain is a good poet's greatness price.
A deep, searing pain like your soul's being slowly sliced.
Born cynics wanting desperately to be mistaken.
We're not only proven right, hope for change is cruelly taken.
What do we do with the pain we're given and that we've made?
What we're born for, soak it in, articulate, then bleed beauty onto page?
I feel all things more deeply, good times great, beauty steals my breath.
Her skin tasted to me like life itself, and the heart break, slow-painful death.
It's surely not fair holding the highest hopes to result in negative renditions.
Heartbreak overtakes us only when we forget the human condition.
It's not the fault of the left brains that we feel without inhibitions.
Poets, we are a different species entirely, my friend.
Perhaps insanity is really the culprit to blame in the end.
It's an impossibility for me to forget the Human Condition.
It's entirely what I'm made of, and the source of my affliction.
I was made with a fusion of all aspects, happiness, hatred, pleasure, pain...
Loyalty, betrayal, forgiveness, wrath; emotion library braided to DNA strains.
Now tell me, dear friend, wouldn't you be a bit insane?
I'm the embodiment of love, hate, pity, rage, despair, and disdain.
Hitting all of me all at once like a hurricane of euphoric pain.
Then I'm accused of embellishment, but posterity's been attained.