True poets turn words to nectar
That flows from the page to your mind.
Soft, gentle, sweet.
I am not a true poet.
I am a torturer of words.
I chain them to the page,
Bind them in my meaning.
Brand them ? and smile as they sizzle.
Only when they are beaten,
Their screams long turned to strained gasps
Their blood pollocked on the page.
Only then am I satisfied.
Only the sadistic,
the self-tortured, the pained