The artist paints his Mona Lisa;
His contemporaries tell him his work speaks volumes;
a million words, as they say~

The writer writes volumes;
thinking his words could blush like a naked virgin too;
with thoughts and mystery untold behind those mocha eyes~

While the poet works both paint and ink;
Cause words are not just words.
They are curses and screams, moans and laughter.
They are the blood that paints emotion;
these words the poet weeps~

Reference my blog, Cascade Poet.