Poets compose when they are broken,
not because they are outspoken.
They grieve like ghosts ‘neath garret’s eaves,
and wear their hearts upon their sleeves.
Poets, they celebrate with verses
breathing beauty Nature nurses
inside a silent shooting star,
in magic moonbeams men can’t mar.
Poets, they can be happy people,
high sometimes like church’s steeple,
until they dive like submarine.
(in darker times when lines are lean)
Poor poets in their lives are lonely
till they find their one and only
their rose of rare romantic rhyme,
who turns for them the tide and time.
Poets compose because they’re breathing,
like the savage sea they\'re seething
because the war inside won’t cease
till poems give them their release!