Poet Inside
I think that there will always be,
A poet here inside of me.
One who likes to read and write,
With ink of black on parchment white.
The words which cause our hearts to smile,
No malice in the words, no guile.
The love songs in his heart he sings,
To paper he sets many things.
He sings of love and angels wings,
Of cupid's arrows and their stings.
Sometimes on war he will lament,
I think his words are Heaven sent.
He thinks in meter and in rhyme,
He does it at the strangest time.
No matter where I seem to be,
His words he always makes me see.
Some songs to ladies makes them cry,
Some simply ask the question, "why?".
I never know just what he'll say,
I wonder what he'll say today.
Will he be happy or be sad,
And write of good times, or of bad.
This poet my heart longs to see,
Oh, how I wish it could be me.
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