Poetry, that language of the soul,
That indeed should a poet speak
To express, to put forth, or indeed impress
For him to sing out, make life whole...
A poet's dreams, they are his life
He puts them on a little piece of paper
He puts in his joy, he puts in his strife
For himself, and for the world to remember
His inspiration is the world outside,
Yet, his canvas seems so small
But with the words he paints inside,
The myriad colors of spring and fall...
Oh how i wish I was one today
I'd be the best poet there could be
But thats not possible in a way
'Cos I could never rhyme, you see..!