Is it hard to conceive?
Just wanting someone to believe,
The words and the things you write about,
Built up by a life of worthless self-doubt,
Your creations all from your mind,
Built up through,
Long periods of time,
Not always battered,
Just significant times that mattered,
Words can be abused,
And can sometimes leave you bruised,
Yet they can be written,
In a way to understand,
Revealing the cards,
That life has presented in your hand,
Occasionally Poets enter,
the dark places of their conscience,
Trawl through experiences,
which have had a consequence,
A happening that is hard to shut away,
Something that’s in your mind,
you visit day to day,
It maybe that people will never really know,
These dark places that poets often go,
Just to find the words,
That let them express,
Their inner thoughts of pain,
Quite often tinged with sadness,
Maybe that feeling of unworthiness,
is also a place,
Which is so often masked,
behind a smiling face,
Maybe it’s Poets,
Who will only ever know,
these strange dark places,
That Poets so often go.
