Poets, some of the baddest beings known to earth,
yet some say we're cursed.
Oh we're cursed, cursed to have the abilities to put words in motion,
bringing them to life on paper in verse.
Hot like fire, we poets have the mentality to grab anyone's lust and desires,
like we're the pen and paper poet Messiahs.
With pencil to pen, we get it all hot for desire.
When we make contact on paper it sets the stages whole tone to fire.
Pure mad skills and ambitions of grabbing the audience's intellectual intuitions,
making them attach to us,
looking for the next high like alcohol and drug addictions.
We lay our poems in lines and then pour the rest in drinking cups.
Then we sit back and watch as they anxiously snort
and consume our poetry up.
The highest intoxication, we send mind, body, and hearts racing,
sending them far beyond any soul's unknown destination.
We're not gods, but it seems that we're gods to our fans,
the ones looking for good poetry in its highest of high demand.
Poets can bring the mind to its closes depths or send it racing off to a far,
but in the end friend
I must say
that we're some Poet Superstars.
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