Ref's ~

  The poet's curse is his ability to see what others just look at. His curse is finding everything metaphorical for the bad things happening in his life. His curse is finding parallels where there need not be. He overcomplicates the simple and deepens the depthless surface. Poetry makes the sunset, not just the sun setting, but hearts losing warmth,  And silhouettes, are not just shadows, but the world losing colours,  The rain, not just the water falling, but heaven grieving a loss.  Yet, when he has nothing and feels empty, he reaches out and finds only poetry by his side.  And so I wonder,  if I ever ran out of words to write        would I feel empty                                             or finally free?