All art is an explosion
of built up pain.
The pain builds up slowly
brick by brick
until it forms a wall
that can only be broken
by the flourish of the pen.
The right words will write themselves
and poetry will rain down on the wall,
filling the air with the fragrance of moist cement.
Once inflamed and throbbing,
the pain will now be a thing of wistful beauty;
its scent -
reminiscent of their own sweet sorrows
to all those who walk by.
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