Poets Heart

So the heart of a poet just bleeds, you say,
And we only cry throughout the day.
I find it amusing, the common ruse,
That poets sit daily and naught but muse
On broken hearts and shattered thoughts
On grey and dying forget-me-nots.
I'm a poet and here to say,
Though sometimes I cry,
My smile does stay.
I laugh, it's true,
And not only on cue.
I write my thoughts out in my pen
To get the devils out, and then,
Smile or sleep, it's rare I weep,
And I'm sure that Poe has had his days
Where sorrow slips away
And, like me, his soul is let to play.
Sadness, often, is conveyed
Merely for its sweetness.
A poets heart can bleed, it's true,
But is it not true, too, of you?
And so I say, with no dismay,
Smile,
Hearts can't always bleed, anyway.