A Poet is a soul suffering silently and alone behind absorbing eyes
A Poet moans music and sighs syllables into obedient ink
Poets can be white, grey, red, green, black, yellow, blue, or pink.
They wonder while they wander
As they silently ponder the life they walk atop the Orbiting Rock.

With deprived minds and closed eyes
Poets spill the truth in ink
in hopes his words in deep they sink.
He can savor every sense
Or be numb to all but his two-cents.

Bleeding deep yet never running dry,
a Poet loves too much and drowns.
He is a thinker, a lover, a child.
A poet paints the simplest of common truths
With paint he mixed from the world around him

A poet knows his friends, but not himself.
He is an actor, scenes upon a stage,
He is a man, pen upon the page.
A poet waltzes with words as he does with girls:
drunk and uncensored in the night.

Poets will never truly die,
Kerouac and Wilde might concur
For a Poet dives to dark depths unknown, unsure of his breath
and with pen creates, transcending death.