The Poets Are Just Kids Who Didn't Make It

A turbulent ocean of sapphire words
Majestic ribbons threading our souls
We are few and far between
Somewhere between the golden sands of Egypt
And the rustic scent of the West
Living on the tops of mulberry trees
Our clothes are stained with the blood of fruit
The interesting facet of a dark and dirty secret
Do not claim to know the depths

Deep across the sweetly treasured valley
A maze is swiftly carved for us to follow in
Black trenches the hue of obsidion
Take us for a ride on magenta stallions
Flying away, yes, we are chained free
Life is but leather whipping at our backs and calves
Red and purple welts smile at us with evil grins
And though our white horses start to soar
Our sins ingrained in the downtrodden Earth

So name-calling is not a necessity
Expression is merely a game for many
The extravaganza can only really boil down to the fact
The poets are kids who just didn't make it.