It's a Pain

A poet must have a wound somewhere, a little pocket in which a hurt is kept. Emily had her fears, Eliot had his guilt, for Dante it was his love for Beatrice and Sylvia had Ted. It's all a part of the trade, the price paid to get through the door whether it's worn as a badge or kept hidden just beneath the skin. Some have a minor nick, a little scratch, whilst others have a gash. It's not something a pill or a surgeon or someone practiced in the dark arts of the head can fix. Its terminal, a lifelong sentence. Not to sound overly dramatic or to overstate, much less make light of the degrees of pain and grief that sometimes inks the page, each little poem is the price you pay for an hour or two of relief.