A poet has but a few favourite things they are much too busy writing dreaming the day away not wasting a thought caught on a day of play
A poet has a few favourite books yet their imagination is as good as any read in their head are heroes, hurts and hopes flipping pages in their mind a librium of poetry and notes
If asked, about their favourite hue they have no colour but words squeezing line mixing rhyme with feelings close enough paintings plainly heard through strokes spoken without brush
A poets favourite things are made up of life and what life sings pain, suffering, simple joys a poets favourite toys are madness and the many things they employ, that brings birth breath and wings into the poetry we all enjoy