Not much substance
Is Held within
This young
Four chambered heart
But with the keenest
Eye for detail
I speculate
How this muse
Got it’s start
How a pastime
Of pain
Was granted the name
Poetry

I sit at a keyboard
And bleed
A fleeting
Essence
Is freed
The hobby
Is a long shot
Indeed
Promising
That I may never
Succeed
A name
That’s too modest
For fame
Poet

The rhythmic
Hum of the soul
Solitude
Takes it’s toll
Mind meets spirit
In silence
I hear it
The artist
Of madness
The genius
Of plight
The medium
Of wisdom
The magic
Of metaphor
Poetry

I feel fulfilled
Embraced by
The flight
So why am I asked
If I feel alright
As I build
A kingdom of script
My mind
Will Endlessly drift
Pick up
Where I left off
I walk the path
Of words
Submerged
In the light
Of literacy
Flowing
To the rhythm
Of eternity
Call me poet
Call me insanity