There is a poet
that spends her time
in her study learning
to rip her heart off her sleeve
and let her blood
stain the paper
no matter how painful
how tiring
how the rivulets of tears
stream down her face
from reopening the countless gashes
of a wounded soul
and of her tired body
at two in the morning
writing her heart out
the poet
who doesn’t get even a dime of recognition
who barely makes ends meet
giving her words
to our hands
our minds
our thoughts
even as some confide in her desk drawer
stain with the salt of tears
she knows they are too much
for the world to see
she is never thanked
appreciated for her pain
and she asks nothing in return