The soul of a sole poet,
Wanders the earth, mouth agape,
Eyes wide, taking it all in, understanding nothing,
The whole of the search for it,
Without a purpose he traipses,
Through a life unbound, untethered and missing something,
That ties his fantasies to truthhoods,
That lives the lives he wishes he could,
But the poet's soul cannot be filled,
He sits empty, his silent voice stilled,
A fool, a fraud who knows it.
He hides behind twisted words,
A makeshift shield 'fore the world,
Misdirection to entertain, fakery, unreal,
He lies to avoid the swords,
His surrender flag still furled,
Fearing to be found out, his talent no big deal,
The rhymes disguise all his true weakness,
A farce, he's totally talentless,
He e'er hopes to not be discovered,
To have his desperate mask uncovered,
Tumble down his house of cards.
And so continues the dance,
The poet weaves tapestries,
Of words of empty meaning and hollow, weak refrain,
And no one gives him a chance,
To show the world what could-bes,
 There are within the toll of letters wrought from fear, pain,
His heart and talent bereft of worth,
He still tries and struggles through the dearth,
His emptiness still void but yearning,
His brain wracked in struggle unlearning,
He's just a poet who can't.

tags: poetry  

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