The Poet and Thee Greatest Poem Never Spoke
WAIT!
the poet laughed
there's love to document
there's passion, there's hate!
WAIT!
where's my pen, my typer?
my life is my art
Living passed by and the world did it's thing, rotating, tilting, and changing
but the poet sat idle, conjuring thought
he dreamt aloud, awake
of simple times
he drank
he smoked, lied, and bargained
yet never put into motion
what realities he should have, could have sought
funny how it happens for the poet
poetically tragic, this nothing whatsoever
WAIT!
cried the overweight, medicated poet
cornered by walls of his own brain
such a creative mind wasting away
a mind with fingers
no friends, and without eyes
the Poet scurried, smelling rain one day
so he looked to the window and wrote "Thee Greatest Poem Never Spoke"
trees gave leaves to fall and winter gave way to crawl
then blew it's load
the poet spoke again,
WAIT!
these beauteous seasons are the very reason my pen leaks prolific ink of lines so great
then spring sprung
bells rang and flings flung
but the poet failed to dare to love
women and children and angels passed his tearful face
and he gasped
WAIT!
I must write and express and show this amazing grace
sadly summer came and went again
upon it's glorious exodus the poet wrote and wrote
more and more of stars he never saw
and of rain his skin failed to feel
and of things he could only imagine
tears of everything doused the poet's pale cheek and he ate the pain which enveloped him
dim lights appeared as a nightmare
and finally one bright light of tunnel vision sizzled his name
the name he'd long since forgotten
just like everyone else
wait...the poet whimpered
wait...
tho' fate
would not,
could not,
WAIT.
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