The Poet bleeds real blood too

The pen's might can be infallible to gust of the wind and the piercing blister of the cold night

The pain can be felt just the same, the barrier the concoction of words create can not sustain where the heart ceases to motivate.

The Poet delivers the literature by which this world exist
Yet on his own quandary and vulnerability, the champion of the wordsmith
Could not create his shield to pain
He would create the stories that make the world appreciate love more than anything else yet he cannot create the antidote when attacked by it.

Stunning crimson red, thick as the rising mercury
The heart that gives it away aches for the loss and bleeds for the defeat.
The greatly The Poet bestows the artistry can be humanized too just as people struggles to everyday setbacks.

The Poet bleeds real blood too!
His is of flesh of tender where the slightest of papercut can slice through his sorrows and follies.
Not his mightiest of wordplay, not the strength of his poetry can soothe the excruciation that drains the body inside out.

This is the downfall of the brain where the emotion ceases to control
This is the submission to mourn because no matter a great mind above fighting heart kept trudging to live one more day
The Poet bleeds real blood too!
It's red, it hurts and the best of them all feel it too.

FFUgay