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.