Why it hurts to write.

The writer sits and people stare
he writes and scribbles and does(n't) care
they point and jeer, laugh and think
wondering if he's on the brink
of some new thought beyond their grasp
time and life fly by so fast
but he keeps writing and thinking on page
as deeper he digs, raise to new stage

of progress against the thoughts of old
thoughts of malice, bitter cold,
overwhelming hate, blinding wars,
richest thieves, cheapest whores.
he pieces puzzles of memories gone,
of wounds unhealed,
of broken song,
of tears unshed,
of bridges burned,
of alarms on snooze,
of corners unturned,
of roads unwalked,
of truth unspoken,
of lies kept,
of promises broken,of wreckage held,
of thoughts ungrown,
of challenges left,
of seeds unsown,
of misery kept and happiness spent,
of lives that are broken or horribly bent,

he strikes gold with logic new
and burns with passion through and through
he pieces puzzles and comes to this,
"all is revealed in the warmth of a kiss.
of a touch, of a love, burning desire,
nothing so warm as two hearts on fire.
and though there is pain in vulnerability,
there is no growth in loving casually.
Give up the wall and let down the pride,
and although it may hurt, let people inside."
And as all sit and sneer, and continue to die,
he thinks of their pain, and loves them,
and cries.