Broken Poem by Smoky Hoss

If wings were words
that came to fly,
one must wonder
would poems fill the deep blue sky?
And if songs
rode upon clouds,
would rain fall
as if singing out loud?

Great poems seldom
make it to the page;
they just become feelings
that grow deeper with age.
Innocent we are born
and broken we die;
when released, souls as words
freely shall fly.

Some of the best poems get cut
right in two,
left to die where they lie, far beyond
the world's small and narrow view.
Yet the poet must
give it a go,
following a small voice whispering:
this is the only way you shall ever truly know.

I write 100 poems, of which
perhaps one is nearly good;
the words seldom flow
as smoothly as they should.
Two things of life
I shall never fully comprehend,
how it all began
and how it all will end.

My thirst is far different
than one might think,
I go to the dry desert my soul for to give
a long and lasting drink.
Of those 99 poorly-poems
only one may turn to the good; oh, but
if I were capable
I would freely give to everyone, all the words I should.
However; for now my thinking comes in fragments
broken and sparse,
of the words, not whole nor complete,
I can only offer up bits and parts.