The poet shall know no love for himself, but perhaps more for others.
He finds it easier, ye necessary, to blind the audience with sentiment than with true literal perfection.
Give the adoration and affection to those hungry for it with words to melt the heart and swallow the brain.
It is with perversity, gnawing and sinful, that sharing words filled with nothing,
Yet formed into something,
That any real satisfaction resembling love will occur.
The poet shall know no love, except maybe for a dimly lit table in the corner to commiserate.
Ashtray full of cigarettes and discarded prose, a glass of some liquor, and tonic to wash it all down.
Thankless in wake of writing something of use, but foolishly wanting the words to live on their own.
How sad and daunting the whole fling with words, nothing will ever replace the warmth of a listener.
The poet shall know no love.
Poetry En Masse 