The Poet

Sitting at his desk with his notebook and pen,
scribbling down words that rhyme now and then
his purpose for writing it was never personal gain
but is a means of expressing his infinite pain

Some rhymes are good and some are bad,
some don't rhyme at all, some rhymes are sad,
from his heart filled with emotions so raw
and the memories of things he felt and saw

A battle hardened warrior, bloodied and all alone
sitting in solitude now with his rhymes and tones
his friends and family, though they're all surround
he lives his life in rhyme, like nobody's around

He carries on his back, a weight very heavy,
his shoulders are soaked by the tears of many
over the years he learned to hold back his own
because his were tears that should be shed alone

His words are an open window in to his heart,
and his life as a writer, with poetry did start
but when those words refuse come out right
he keeps writing, he doesn't quit without a fight

Bad choices and decisions, define his entire life,
too many times the recipient of the proverbial knife
with a heart designed for heavier burdens than others
the Poet lives in solitude, writing rhyme without bother