He is a gentle, lonely man
Looking for love
But willing to accept
company, and comfort.
He is crying alone, now,
In a vast and empty bed
Having said goodbye to another someone
Twelve hours later than advisable.
Those transient lovers
Are always impressed with his beautiful house,
His designer bed, with Harrods sheets
Everything white, and the best of the best.
He tells them he's an architect, and it shows
In the immaculacy,
But last night he took home a builder
To ***** and rumple those pristine sheets,
And he wished for an excuse to knock through the walls
And tear it all down,
So he could keep him, to rebuild.

An artist, creative and imaginative
Powerful enough to place, into mere words,
The phenomena that take place in his mind.

Marveled enough by his surroundings
That evoke anger, gratitude or happiness
His mind efficacious, his talent omnipotent.

Bourne of superior intellect
Taken in by souldiers of courage and
Raised by wisdom, pain and knowledge.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Each day the Poete rises from his rest
Each day the Poete more powerful than the last
Each day the Poete expresses greatness from within.

Rhythm and brilliance flow deeply in his veins
Beauty created by the molding of his words
Truth is spoken through the realness of his verse.

Poete Prophet, able to see what's hidden beneath
He sees the lies abstruse in sugar-coated deceit
He reveals the fib's tales and makes them his gospel.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Exquisite verse, natural and unrehearsed
The Poete will forever be mind blown
And continue to expose the joy in his word.

He writes not for tangible wealth or
Useless recognition, but he blesses his pen to paper for the simple appreciation of veracity.

The Poete steals sight from the blind,
He takes weakness from the strong,
And owns the shades of colour, all to create artistry.

See I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.