The days go on one at a time. All the people move on day by day forgetting the images their minds captured moments before. Yet the poet's mind never moves on. Things are merely added to the ongoing thoughts. Many men and women may pass by things every day such as a wooden park bench, a bird's nest, or an old home, never thinking anything of them. Yet the poet sees something different every time. The ordinary mind may see the old park bench as a nuisance as they are walking to the buss station to work every day. Yet the poet sees it for its full potential. They see the uneven legs, the scratched, evenly carved, oak wood, the rusting metal, and the rough texture, as something beautiful, almost alive. They wonder of all the people who have sat on its wooden seat. An artist with delicate hands. A young man flexing his muscles for any passing female. A little girl holding her daddy's hand. A warrior whose eyes have seen much more than most human beings could bear. The never-ending mind of a poet stays lost in thought, never wavering. The mind of a poet never truly has one base for their way of thinking. One day, they may see this world as a trap, oxygen merely a barrier to what they could never achieve. Yet then again, the poet may see the world as a welcoming, enjoyable place to be with all its beauty. But most of all, the poet's mind is never readable, never predictable. No one understands the mind of a poet, even other poets, which could be the cause for some poet's downward look on life. For they are incredible works of art, displayed with pen and paper, giving the world the only glimpse of the poet's mind it will ever receive.