This is for every poet,
those published, unknown, or don’t know it.
For the spirit within us that is both
tough as nails and delicate as lace,
and the talent that often goes to waste.
For the late nights when all we have are our words, paper, and a pen,
and our journals and notebooks that more like a best friends.
For the hearts that bleed verse,
we have been blessed with this curse.
We are the unsung
for every line that creates its own song.
Yes this is a poet’s plight,
but we won’t be reduced to the validation
of a like.
© LaRonda Moore