, ,

No, that isn’t a mistake




Words that rhyme

But not all the time

From the simple to the absurd,

To all those yet unheard

A poem is a letter of writ

To express, to show, to admit

That we have stories, such stories to tell

Some good, some bad, some on which we shall not dwell

But how to tell these stories of ours?

It is not learnt in seconds, no, but hours

Anger, misery, love and glee

I take, I write, I make them see

Poetry is not something that can be taught

It is an inner demon to be fought

Only by wrestling it free from our fear and doubt

Can we truly allow our talents to sprout

A long hard road lies ahead 

Will you have the courage, on this path to tread?

And at its end, neither fame nor glory

All that awaits is an end to your story

That story, though, will be yours alone

Etched it will be, into eternal stone

So I ask you, young poet to be

Won’t you share this world with me?


Thank you for listening.