The True Poet

Blank paper, blank paper.

Why won’t you fill with words?

Have I not any thoughts?

Or is the pencil dull.

Maybe pen out of ink.

Look at all these excuses that come to one’s mind,

For just one simple task.

No, not a task.

A talent.

An outlet.

A destiny.

A way of life.

To sit here,

To take thoughts and put them to rhyme with elegant words.

Yet sometimes no rhyme,

Sometimes no meaning.

Just thoughts.

Yet one asks, what thoughts?

Maybe no thoughts at all.

Yes, just word pictures,

Or perhaps pictures of words.

No, no, no, that is not what a poem is.

What then is a poem?

One will never know.

But when one reads they find poems,

And one when not reading finds poems as well.

What then has this world come to?

Have we no means of expression?

Yes one will say.

For there is expression.

Clothes.

Pictures.

Music.

Athletics.

Yet there is no expression.

No expression for the lonesome artist, a poet.

For the poet sits in a corner,

A space filled with thoughts and inspiration,

Yet no means of expression comes.

One then states that the poet is not truly good at expression,

Yet still one knows the statement to be false.

For the poet who sits the longest with no written words is truly the best.

One will question to why this is,

But the answer being quite logical is this:

For every word not expressed by the poets hand,

Is just an hours worth of long thought out things that now sit in the poet’s mind.

Though not expressed on paper,

The poet has created one of the best poems there is.

This poem is to be kept.

To be understood.

To be remembered.

To be memorized.

To be reread over and over again.

By the one who it means the most to,

This one being the poet who sits in the corner,

With paper still blank,

Pencil still dull,

Pen out of ink.

This is the true poet.