Poets.

We, the poets, ourselves, are what we try to live for. 

We don't need the sympathy.

We, however, need love. 

That is how we become a poet.

Metaphor is our favorite language.

It's like sugar to coffee, the more you add, more sweet it becomes.

Our conceit is the game we love.

We rhyme our words.

We, sometimes, write to accord.

We make grammatical errors,

because you, and I was in prior of the time we write.

We pen words in our paper,

scintillating thoughts we express:

to ease our distorted mind,

and to bring peace in ourselves.

If you're crestfallen for the ink you spilled in an empty floor,

Melancholic words are the papers' favorite.

If life has let you down,

Poetry still smiles and asks you to pick up a pen.

Don't let the poet in your heart die,

Never ask it to change either. 

Let's make a thunderstorm beautiful and the snow hideous.