The Poet

The artist paints his Mona Lisa;
His contemporaries tell him his work speaks volumes;
a million words as they say~
The writer writes volumes;
thinking his words could blush like a naked virgin too;
with thoughts and mystery untold behind those mocha eyes~

While the poet works both paint and ink;
Cause words are not just words merely guttural sounds
They are curses and screams, moans and laughter
They are the blood that paints emotion
These words the poet weeps