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not_thepoet_hewantstobePoems
They were only words but they had meaning. He met with them as an empty vessel. Inside him, though, a way he’d been leaning, Thoughts which he did not know how to wrestle. They were only words but his bell was rung— Sudden elusive feel of vibration! Sounding a note like a string had been strung, An echo resonant with elation! They were only words but they made him sing, Of pleasures hidden away for too long. How much inspiration these words could bring! He’d never heard his own heart write its song! He’d been so dull with words, but below it— The sensitivity of a poet!
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Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
Sonnet To A Reluctant Poet
They were only words but they had meaning. He met with them as an empty vessel. Inside him, though, a way he’d been leaning, Thoughts which he did not know how to wrestle. They were only words but his bell was rung— Sudden elusive feel of vibration! Sounding a note like a string had been strung, An echo resonant with elation! They were only words but they made him sing, Of pleasures hidden away for too long. How much inspiration these words could bring! He’d never heard his own heart write its song! He’d been so dull with words, but below it— The sensitivity of a poet!
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Written by
not_thepoet_hewantstobe
M/USA
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
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