The Poets

I think of all the poets
who sit alone and cry.
What are we all doing wrong,
those thousands or poets and I?

I think of all the poets
who stop and sadly sigh.
Their feelings rendered meaningless,
their hearts just cast aside.

I think of all the poets
who commited suicide.
Thinking death poetic,
with bullets, pills and knives.

I think of all the poets,
who cannot say they know,
despite all poems that they write,
the ones they love still go.