When I say poets are a different breed of people, I never mean we're the better brood.

They're just as twisted and crippled as a man on the verge of madness and mayhem.
They're snobby, sob and whimper just as much as a cat on a hungry high.
Vicious, alert, just as a predator on prey hunt.
For words are easy to come by, but what about poetry?
They're stubborn little forms of art.

Poets are just as singled as a lone tree on a ground.And more often than not,
just as dead as the same tree that gets hit by lightening.
They don't find solace in setting suns or beautiful moons, they never live in the moment nor breathe in a rhythm of
4 - 7 - 8.

Because they're trying to coerce words out of their mind in a way only they suffer.
Their mind is labouring, furiously sweeping over brain folds, for any glimpse of a
metaphor
metonymy
hyperbole
paradox
verse
or something as basic as a rhyme.

They're unsettling little humans trapped in a world of travelling letters and mirrors of soul reviews, who find solace in their ballads and sonnets.
But when I say poets are a different breed, I never mean they're the better brood.

They're just as flawed, yet soothing to read of.
For what service does a mirror do a person, a poem does to a poet.
And that's probably the most you'll know about a poet,
the depth of their odes.