Nothing But Human

We die at tender ages, while ambitions are still young; we are trials and failures. Poets are people too. Our wastes stink like everyone’s. We cry, we hoot. We love, we show disgust. Poets are people too. The same lips that brought comfort to the oppressed and shout approvals for things well done, utter dark enchantments and trumped-up stories. Poets are people too. Our fables of love bring descents and eternal anguish to the beguiled. Our soft words stir wilting souls to endure, and cast delight into tearful eyes. Poets are people too. Our words are mummies, preserved for scrutiny. We echoed the defiance for ethics, and bend revolting spirits to resign. We mold soft hearts as cruel as stones, and corrupt beautiful minds. Poets are people too. We are mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts; we are children, delightful children. We are the voices of ten thousands suffering.