I see people write
people with amazing capabilities
with power of words
stringing from their hearts

stirring from their hands
like a puff of magic
that could bring life, that could
churn souls, mend parts

But I see people write
People with amazing capabilities
write with broken hearts
bearing the weight of their past

Writing grim lines of hope
Tales of sorrow and deary desire
Of an inkling of love, or it's loss
Or life with no sense of fire

Why do all broken things
sound so beautiful I wonder
As I write a sonnet of woe?
So ironic, I know.

But the ryhtmic stance is so long forgotten
in the wake of pouring it through
For we all are... emotional fools, to say.
We go only where our heart stays

And sometimes even in the lightest days
we follow afoot
to the darkest place

For have we become accustomed to the stillness?
The numbness that it brings?
Do we not know anymore on how to row back to happiness
to all that it could bring?

And so we scribble, we bleed,
we rant, share, we fight
and perhaps that is how even in this dark
we stand to find us-light.
© M