When you write poetry straight from your soul,

To share and to heal is a weight and can take a great toll.

No masks, no pretence, just an honest release,

Yet the reverbs of derision may never quite cease.

 

There are, I know, those who posture for fame,

While others bleed ink, bearing sorrow and shame.

True verse is confession, a wide open hand

Not crafted to flatter, nor made on demand.

 

Poetry exists where the false cannot dwell,

It mentions the secrets we are fearful to tell.

It shatters illusions, it destroys all pretence,

It honours the wounded, the voiceless, those in need of defence.

 

So write what is real, let the vacuous be still,

Truth is the rhythm no populist can kill.

Though the world may dismiss, and its plaudits are few,

The soul finds its freedom when the poet is true.