the greatest poets and writers of lyrics
did their work without an audience
it happened in rooms with little light
some bathed in glory, others never saw
the labor of their loves because they died
the poets life is never pretty
most never touch the golden ones
they mostly die by their own hand
but by their own words
they are immortal.
with Love to Poe and bukowski.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem