After midnight and I can’t sleep
Thoughts ploughing furrows much too deep
Tossing and turning in the bed
With thoughts charging through my head
The early hours past late night
Pen is demanding that I write
Not sure what can’t find the words
No more rhymes about little birds
Strange to think a man like me
Has discovered a poetic therapy
Strange to think a pad and pen
Can make a man feel born again
Just put the pen down on the pad
Then soon enough: don’t feel so bad
Pen keeps moving and I feel good
Curb my thoughts of death and blood
It’s true to say I’ve plenty time
To think about composing rhyme
But it’s more than that with me you see
It’s something deep inside of me
When the words go down upon the page
It curbs my anger curbs my rage
It curbs my anguish and my hate
Gives me the platform to think straight
And obviously I’m no Shakespeare
But poems and verse allay my fear
Quite honestly, I find it soothing
Comforting and amusing
Kipling’s words can make me shiver
Byron’s words flow like a river
Poetic words can make me ache
Jerusalem, by William Blake
It’s my ambition to compose
A poem to match the Red Red Rose
But then again I think I could
Settle for one that’s half as good
I’m not too bad at writing rhyme
For a Gypsy boy left school at nine
Everything I know I’ve taught myself
By reading books from every shelf
Don’t judge a man by what he’s earned
Judge a man by his lessons learned
Ignorance is bliss some do say
But ignorance is not my way
Ignore these words, you can’t afford
The pen is mightier than the sword
(c) varey 2013
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
great write, Gypsy Boy.