The ways of a poet are mad, as you know.
His reason, for rhyme, he has swapped long ago.
His mind has been wiped and his brain has been washed.
All soundness and sense, with his sanity’s, squashed.
The days of a poet are strange and surreal.
They flicker like film, have a fantasy feel.
They’re full, but they’re fearful; fast flowing like stream.
Some days, they’re delightful, some dark as a dream.
The life of a poet is short as a fuse.
It’s mythical, mystic and merges with muse,
who blesses with beauty, gives grace for the grief,
in life of the poet, exceedingly brief.
The pen of a poet is poised and is primed,
prepared to pour poetry, pure, that is rhymed.
With ballpoint that\'s sharper than Samurai sword
a poet’s more lethal than Samurai Lord!
The heart of a poet’s not worn on his sleeve.
Prefers to pretend, play the fool and deceive.
He’ll pose as a poet with spine of blue steel,
who’s so well adjusted; it’s almost unreal!