The poet writes at night
to expose with eloquence, distress
In this frenzy of mad delight
is discovered this poor fool's mess
This is no mark of glory
nor does it beckon any fame
For, 'tis naught but a story
or pride wrapped up in shame
The poet writes at dawn
in the midst of early morning hues
The sunlight's rays do shine upon
this page, and eyes of few
Who reads these words,
who dares to gaze?
What quest begets such query?
What virtue is seen,
behind the haze
Of the poet's impassioned fury?
The poet writes,
the world listens
Ideas and plights,
in ink do glisten
Anew, the day wakes up the world
but there is no blank slate
For, we find new problems scribbled
to solve them, this is fate