Some say that writers have a gift
To write about the mundane.
To make it beautiful; set thoughts adrift.
But if you'll listen, let me explain
That making beauty is not great;
Especially beauty from pain and hate.
Poets turn love into what it's not;
A devouring monster or sweet peace,
What is love truly? Your scribbled ink-knot?
Reading that sadness grants no release,
And happiness is always so short;
Happiness is many poets' final resort.
Are we the doomed generation?
So many of us are liars by trade
Can the few poets give an explanation,
Or are we also just liars, unswayed?
Poets fill hearts with a burning desire
To experience passionate things
Yet a poet might be a glamorous liar
Or just able to feel awe for all life brings;
What I say is probably slander
Against the poets that write with candour.