Poets sit down and write
they don't think about it
they just spill their hearts and souls
I, however, am unable to do that.
I sit here and type.
Unable to produce anything but meaningless words.
I cry over failure;
I sob over incompetence;
I weep over my losses;
Poets don't do that.
Or am I just at a misunderstanding of the infamous writers I've had the pleasure of knowing?