Writing keeps writers happy;
Dying keeps journalists sated.
Crying satisfies hurting hearts;
Pain is kiente.

Kiente is the broken force of a storm,
No longer damagingly harmful,
Covering the day and leading
A girl to hurl herself into darkness

Kiente; kee-yen-tayh, Klingon for "laughter,"
Human for "pain," mine for bittersweet humor;
People in love have it; The tired, the hungry
Who are still cabable of laughing without rancor,
They express it.