Can a poet truly hide,
Emotions and feelings flowing inside?
Words begging to be heard,
Thoughts ravaging his head.
With a poet there are no secrets,
Yet his words come out discrete.
He tells his story but not like a biographer,
The truth he leaves for you to decipher.
With his words he's minimalistic,
Yet they are so simplistic.
Sometimes he wants you to dig deeper,
Use you minds eyes, see more clearer.
His words convict him truly,
He speaks of himself surely.
But these are only fragments,
His imagination in pigments.
He paints our future and our past,
He perfectly shades the contrast.
He dishes life secrets on a platter,
But no ones to read his letters.
So he is caught out in his own world,
Nearly choking on his own words.
A saviour needing saving,
Mind like the ocean freely waving.
He definitely must be mad,
Always alone looking sad.
But no one sees what he sees,
When he speaks no one believes.
But soon after he's gone,
His words hit them like a stone.
They begin to search for answers.
His words killing them like cancer.
The Poet walks a lonely road,
His thoughts and words a heavy load.
In the end he fights for all,
Yet alone he stands tall.