A poet really ought to be
someone who sleeps like you and me,
and not one who would spend his night
fighting with the words that might turn into prose or rhyme.

Every time I think like this
I kiss the day goodbye and settle down with pen and ink
and think more words than you might think and sometimes sink into the night and think that this verse sounds alright
but when I read the words aloud,
I change them once or twice but being proud I do not tell mere
mortals of this living hell.

And in the finishing when ink's diminishing and hands are sore
I read my words again,
a bore, I know,
but poets know it too and this is what poets will do.
An odd breed indeed
these men who live to feed on words and worse
turn them to poetic verse
I curse them all
and I curse me
for loving this
the poetry.