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.
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