A poet knows There are one thousand ways to tell a lieAnd only one way to tell the truthA poet knows That sometimes a lie makes a better storyThan any truth ever wouldA poet knows that people speak Sometimes without thought or purposeBut simply because mouths must move And words must find a way to stay aliveA poet knows That to all stories there are three partsAnd that every story must end eventuallyBut what a poet does not knowIs how hearts work or how time passesWithout any sort of notice until the pagesAfter the bookmark simply become lessAnd lessUntil there is one And then a sentenceThat ends with a period.