Poets die young

"Poets die young." They say, well,of course we do, we barely fly before our wings are torn, torn by those who created us. They say it's sin not to dream, But is it not a sin to tear off a young Icarus's wing? Not to ever chase after their sun? "Poets die young." No,we don't, we are murdered— Murdered by this cruel world we live in, a world where one's wings are cut, before they even bear feathers of hope. I wonder how many souls fell, Fell after their first leap, as they get chained to the ground, never to be free. "Poets die young," well, some of us do, we write as no one listens, but the pages do— they don't scold nor call us weak, they carry our tears, and even our blood When life seems bleak. But to some, when even the pages seem full, it's then they fall— fall to this world so cruel. Another Icarus falls, But a new Icarus is born From the ashes of the fallen before, But this world tears their wings too— and they say, "Poets die young."