Poets

There is a pain this in world, often unknown. There is a pain in this world, often in poem. I feel for writers as they are scared souls. I feel for writers and hearts full of holes.

Often different, and never known, we are the people who tend not to moan. Quiet in the background they tend to shout, often heard but not thought about.  

Here but forgotten, they sit and cry, thinking if and wondering why. Why are we different? Why do we shout, we are most often forgotten about.