we think in ink,
we blend and mend
our sorrows with
the bend of letters
scripted to our hearts,
we laugh in verbs connected
to ideas that make
others howl as well,
we love in quiet moments,
where words barely express
the caress of flesh on flesh,
yet still we probe
with pen tips
the different ways
to elicit responses
from simple words
we cry with each other
when death edits a poet
from our lives,
and leaves a
question mark.
we capture on a vast net
all of our innermost feelings
that flutter through us
and then display their beauty
and their sufferings so that others
can learn from each and choose
to fly a better path.
our pens are wands
calling forth the spirits
that summon the Muse
who works the magic from the tips
of our wands onto the paper
and into the minds
of all who hear and read.
A poet who reads his own work
can make the audience
feel every syllable,
and each emotion
by the friction of his diction,
by the wrath in his path
as he storms across
the podium and roars
and by the softness in his voice
when the tender words
tender tears from the crowd,
and by the hilarious uproars
he can coax when a work
strikes a funny chord
and makes an entire group
harmonious with laughter.