Heart of a Poet

What’s in the heart of a poetIs it wintry and fruitlessAn apple tree degraded by mustard gasOr nothingThere has to be somethingIn the heart of a poetIt cannot be baron with numbnessFeeling of a psychopath, thinkCan a psychopath be a poetNoA poet is merely a mixed bag of feelingsDisheveled, in disarray, arranged by no creative orderAs no poet is tidy, for no writing is poorerWhen written with a blank expressionIn a neat room, on a leather chairWith every piece of paper filed properWhat’s in the heart of a poet Nothing There’s just blood-soaked paper