The Little Poet
The little man inside my skull
who makes me write some rather dull
and even boring diatribes
has just this morning sent some vibes
that as of yesterday he would
write real poems as he should.
He had a pretty dumb excuse,
I think it could be called a ruse.
He needed practice, so he said
and living there inside my head
he didn't get to travel much,
for inspiration, thoughts and such.
Though now, he's found, through clever means
how to partake in life's own scenes.
He's noticed that the inner ear
which after all is there to hear
receives the fragments of a word,
and out he flies with it, a bird!
The reason that he's never known
(thus roundabout he's never flown)
is simply that he never thought
that small, creative creatures ought
to value input of the masses,
which does include small talent classes.
Now that he's seen the poet's light
he recognises all the bright
and thoughtful, smart, exquisite souls
who write not for some lofty goals
but for the joy that it instills,
and -well - to flaunt poetic skills.
The little man is so much calmer
now that he's read the works of Palmer.
Observed the little man (who's sane) :
'Much confidence can make you vain.'