tortured poets

 

I’ve loved sad songs,

So much that I turned into one.

I sing a lullaby to sleep,

A silent melody no one hears.

I’ve written agony into stories

So often, I now live in one.

Every page bleeds a little truth,

Books thicker as I leave a part of me in it.

Poets like me are tortured —

Yet never gone.

We live between commas and sighs,

Afraid to end the sentence.

Read between the lines;

The truth is to be found among them.