Poets ponder
They cannot squander
A stipend they do not receive
For paid in thought
Their piece of mind
Are words formed and conceived
A tale of sorts
Depiction of life
Even death if they so choose
Sometimes humor
So often, strife
Sometimes fake and sometimes true
To live on poetry
Getting paid for thoughts
Is not within the poets reach
That’s why they work
Many various jobs
Laborers, professionals, and some, they teach
Within their thoughts
Their written words
Lies the life for which they wish
For there in mind
Though pockets bare
The poet knows, within, he’s rich
As thought has value
But not of dollar
Intrinsic is what it shall always be
The poet stands
Not then with riches
But pride in thought, his dignity