Why must a poem suffer?
Why must it bear
the whims, fancies, and pain
of a poet who knows not how to sustain?
Must the delicate curve of verse,
be always burdened by a poet’s melancholy?
A bird, a butterfly, a breeze—
why should a poem not be all that it sees?
Must it always drench the paper,
first in ink, then in tears—
the remnants of a poet’s silence,
anxieties, woes, and fears?
Ah, hopeless romance!
The quiet communion.
when all deserts the poet,
the poem knows—
this is all the poet has within,
this is all the poet has within,
and stays…
~T T “Papermate“~
Papermate is just another face in the maddening crowd.
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