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