I dressed my sorrows in the dark,
A tailor, nimble, blind and stark.
Anger beckoned, a fiery muse,
Whispering sonnets with a fuse.
In that crucible bleak and strange,
A smithy hammering at change.
With every ember\'s creative bite,
I sculpted shadows into light.
Beyond the thorns, the bloodied veil,
Lies the art that tells the tale.
The pain, the ire, in the forge’s glow,
Transmuted into a creative flow.
So paint your anger, sing your sorrow,
Forge today, a brighter tomorrow.
For at the heart of each painful thing,
Is a bird that\'s waiting to take wing.