A poet always sees and writes the world through rose colored glasses,
He realizes that his Poetry is about so many things life, love and mixing the masses,
What does the poet see when he writes afraid of making a blunder,
A Hodge podge of words the world gets to see it makes him wonder;

Will the work always be like this jumbled in his head before going on paper,
His skill under the blade to be recognized or disappear like a whispering vapor?
And yet through all of the doubt he hears a victory call ringing in his head,
He writes faster and faster his whole being feeling the weight of the dread,

What if’s surround him his soul cries for help he scribbles once more;
Trying to capture the essence of his feeling, the paper becomes torn,
Torn with frustration hands in his hair, he bunches it up and starts it all over, 
His eyes glisten with frustration the unshed tears of an unrequited lover,

And then all at once a light bulb goes off and he knows what to say,
He scribbles and writes as fast he can holding all other thoughts at bay,
And when it is done he sighs with relief and looks at all he has written,
And the poet he sighs the lover is quiet and content like a newly fed kitten


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