I saw a poet who is young and old
He cries at night… and acts during the day
He holds his heart in his hands
And sees the blood dripping from his pen
He calls himself “the old penniless ragged poet”
I call him “my poet”
The pain that he carries in his heart is all he keeps for self
I asked for an ounce of it, he denied.
He asked for nothing
I gave him my shoulders to cry upon
He cried holding his knees
he told me to move on
But I still sit on the cold stone bench
As I see my poet
Who is young and old, who cries at night
And acts during the day.

P.S : Forgive me if my poem hurts my poet.