I know you have spent endless nights,
despondently staring into voidness,
With mind full of poems and proses.
Hearing echo of dead poems being recited,
Yet sleeping with blank pages.
I know there have been times
When you cried over your ink-smeared paper,
Rhyming words for your loved ones,
I know it took you years,
To realize that you are destined
For this delightful art.
I know you have taken a look
Into every human’s eyes
Only to realize that every poem
That has ever been written is in them.
Your words will anyway
Live longer than them.
Let your words comfort you,
Let them heal and not wound,
Let them be seasoned with salt,
Let them be edifying.
Let them never die.
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