There are lovers, fighters, partiers
and “yes” there are the poets

Found in corners of coffee shops,
libraries and assorted borders
Taking life as it comes, singing its song,
writing its wrongs
With eyes for everything

and for anything,

that is, or will be

in these walls of make believe
the poets continue to breathe
Wishing for better, hoping for more,
reaching for the unseen
Feeling lost but not so far gone
as to, take it, at any cost

Yes, the poets in their caps
holding lap tops
Settling into the corners

of human hordes
While repeating a verse
found in a rhythm
Some are quiet, some squeak,
some allow a tear to be seen
Hearing the music, dancing a lyric
or listening intently without apparent feeling

while their poetry reveals the kaleidoscope of being
an internal emotion creating colorful scenes

Yes, the poets require some suffering
The ones that write as they see the battle fields,
the lovers’ flights
reliving the party from last night
All for the glory of getting it right

Because poets only do it
for the love of life