I have learned the language,
And no Holy Grail.
I change my walk,
Down every trail.
I have spoke of your heroes,
In great detail.
I love rap music,
But still no avail.
I want to have a black friend,
But I am too pale.

I lay beneath the freckled, darkened sky waiting for either sleep or you to find me.
I fear sleep will here long before you.

I now know that Fall is here.
I found this out by listening to the season's sounds.
The leaves' crunch, the mountains' air, and people saying,
"Fall is here. Hey, hey, Fall is here."
I have a love hate relationship with Autumn.
I love it, but hate that everyone else does too.
If I was the only person to enjoy the new world's change, then I would possibly the happiest person to carve a pumpkin.

I now know Fall is here.
In the mountains Fall shows itself soon and strong.
By people wearing coats no matter what the weather.
Honestly, why do people so this.
I love fall too, but the gods of weather and season do not just decide to change by you wearing too many layers of flannel.

I now know Fall is here.
The smell of Fall is sweet and fresh.
All my female friends light pumpkin and apple candles.
This unusual act spits in mother nature's face as if saying  hey I'm going to take what you did and light it on fire and sniff it.

I now know Fall is here.
The nights seem long and undisturbed.
Except for me rambling about how much I dislike people who like fall more than I do.

Well you see the thing to understand is poetry is a gospel to the world.
At first you feel as if it is oppressive chains tying you down to the soiled earth with every simplistic tick tock.
That is at least until you discover this world has no rules for an adventurer of free verse.
Your words now flow like an expeditious brook as long as you use metaphors with pretentious words.  

However rules exist it is plain to see.
Some poems go aabb.
Those are simple ones to find.
Those are the ones stuck in your mind.

Now one more step, aabbc.
Those are a little more artsy.
You draw your crowd in.
Get under their skin,
And finish a little bit different.

And now it's time for set number three.
One that can simply astound.
The great, magnificent abab.
Those make a poet nearly profound.

There are  couplets, sonnets, and monoryhms.
And now for the last one, all in good time.
I wanted you all to hear them like chimes,
But all that I had I left you in these lines.

When I look in the mirror I see a failure.
When I look down I see unaccomplished feet and unskilled hands.
I have mentally collected every synonym for  disappointment,
Loser, loafer, underachiever.
The worst part is others see it too.

There is a phrase, jack of all trades,
But is that really what I am?
I am certainly not good at really anything.
I'm mediocre at best, no more no less,
So am I a trade-full jack?
If being not bad is what I am,
I guess it could be worse.

My shadow seems to follow me.
I catch it everywhere.
I can't seem to loose it.
I swear upon the book of common prayer.
I found it once behind me.
Our twisted love affair.
It seems to chase my actions.
Distant like the great Altair.
Yet close oh so many times,
With such pernicious debonair.