Poets are cursed

“Your poems are beautiful” Are they? They are just romanticised grief, just my pain decorated in black by the dagger I hold. Never I thought of my poems as "beautiful." What beauty do they hold? I ask you, have you ever seen past the lines? Past the rhymes? Past the metaphors? Past the grief? Have you? Of course you haven't, no one does. They just look at the poem, no one even thinks of the author. "But you’re so blessed to have this talent." Am I? Am I blessed to be hurt this much, broken beyond fixing, am I? Or am I cursed in a pitiful manner? To know what I wish to speak, but the words don't come out, but be able to dress it, decorate it, but never to ask for help. Everyone claps,but no one checks. So, I ask you, is it a blessing? or is it a curse? Can't answer? Neither can I. "But you have so much to grow." Do I? I am a poet, and poets die young. So again, I ask you, Is being a poet a blessing? or is it a curse? Our pain we decorate, our grief, we romanticise, we even call death sooner, maybe because it sees our black and blue blood.