The poet tells his story
As he writes it with his heart
His feelings, his inspiration
Is where his poem starts

He tries to help us understand
His suffering and his pain
His pen and paper, his only voice
As he tries his best to explain

He labors for what seems like hours
For the words to pierce our souls
He's ever watching his meter
And the rhythm that it flows

The perfection he seeks is elusive
For it's all a matter of taste
But knowing that the words he used
Could never go to waste

For now, his soul is emptied
And his pain, somewhat diminished
He knows his relief is fleeting
And his poem remains unfinished

You see, the poet is a prisoner
To the words that fill his heart
From where his first poem ends
Is where his next poem starts