Poets are innocent fools. Feeling more though reality forbids, We cling onto what may never be — Chasing the lie of a merciful end. Poets are innocent fools. Hiding behind the pages we bleed, Shielding our aches in rhyme and metaphor — With a hunger the world cannot feed. Longing to be seen Beyond our masquerade. Poets are innocent fools. Knowing our words go unheard, Yet still hoping — believing — That somewhere in the darkness, words will echo to those who listen.