some poems come from deep melancholy,
as a curse to the desolator of everything holy.
seeping from the ravines of heart to soul slowly.
weeping from the pen into Loving the pain wholly.

some come from sleeping with agony and waking up as one.
From the ever-growing roots of a dead stump.
Some come from drinking to death without getting drunk.
And some come from where nothing else can come.
© Su_tshant