Curse

The curse is that we know the words
We use them in despair
And off the pen they fly, as birds
Will take into the air

The curse is feeling all the lines
We place upon the page
As if we're stabbed a dozen times
Or beaten in a rage

This curse is based on feeling much
But simply sharing less
Exposed to air just like a cut
That's sliced across our flesh

And cursed we all record our lives
And word by word we live
As poets etching out goodbyes
To those from whom we've hid

© Jarrett Douglass DeLude