The Poet's curse

Casual things don't exist in poet's vocabulary, not even glancing. Their mind is beyond— beyond repair. They crave endless interpretation, meaning and connection. Their eyes— see through different lenses. They don't cry— they bleed on paper. Their ears— hearing every chaos, yet a stillness remains. Their mouth— they speak a language that no one can translate. That's the curse they need to hold 'til their madness loses its ink.