Countless poets and songwriters have been born,
Of men and women with hearts lovelorn.
Playing with a pen the chords of their heart,
Mightier than the sword, say some, and vicious as a poisoned dart.
'Tis the beauty of true love, it fails to die,
It lingers in the morning drizzle, and the mournful sigh.
Not till then you realize, how the heart can ache,
It does, and literally so, till that is all one can take.
Pain brings out the creative in you, they say,
The judge, of what's good, in the audience does lay.
They applaud, for, sometime, they have felt the anguish,
The others, they never in love's cove did languish.
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