ThePoet

With pen in hand and an open mind,
The Poet sat down to ponder life and mankind.

Of a million words,
Running through his head.
The pen caught some,
So they could be read.

Some words expressed laughter, hate and love,
Some words were of peace, desire and solitude.
Others so confusing they were none of the above,
But together they made poetry which was sometimes rude!

Be warned…

For several years, The Poet sat,
Thinking about this,
The pen writing about that.
Until The Poet had pondered enough,
So collected the scripts - some had gathered dust.
"I'll publish these pen - the good with the rough,
Your work will start again, ye' shall gather no rust"