Sorrow

It seems as if
All poets are filled
With sorrow
With dreams of no
Tomorrow

All scars
No respite
All pain
No healing

And nothing
But tears
As they write
Another pitiful poem

Do I cry
For them
Who do not help
Themselves
No

For love though gone
Does not matter
But if gone forever
Should be wept alone

If beaten and accosted
Then seek action
From fist or voice
Or authority

But why cry
Why threaten death
Why take a knife
To yourself
Why a noose
Why

When life is more than that
Life is beautiful
And is what you make it
If you see pain
Pain is what you are
If you see the rose
You will be the rose
And your life will be beautiful

Let you throw off the black
And search the prism
For blue
Green
Red
Pink
Yellow

Let there be
No more
Sorrow