He don't care fer them thar points and such,
when asking a question . . becomes just too much . . to respond to.
Collaboration . . . what collaboration ?
Where do all of the poets go during daylight hours ?
Do they only come out at night ? What time is right ?
The thoughts, their thoughts, . . seep out in the dark, when they
are alone, to be expressed in anguish, written in anger or through
tearing eyes, scoffed at and erased, jotted down and replaced, . .
time and again . . it never ends . . the haunting of their souls.