Poets are losers, but not in derogatory sense

Only through great loss, do our words first come to light

Hearts torn apart with personal grief or burning rage

We pour our angst onto the page in lyrical lines

With rhythmic beats to match our pounding hearts

Lost in musical waves of words that mirror pain

We stamp our feet in time with erratic thoughts

Refrains so boldly confessional, yet oft in vain

The art of losing cannot be mastered, but endured

In silence, never shared for all to see upon the page

But the therapeutic benefits are not wasted

When the message moves, and finds its audience engaged