THE POET AND I

THE POET AND I

My simple words are like scratches on a flat desolate rock,

that  no one else will ever see

Yours, intricate words, engraved on shinny granite, a monument; to what poetry should be

 

My expression, tortured streams of vowels; begging to be saved;

drowning in the seas

While your verses, paint a lush green landscape; with exploding blooms, from cherry trees

 

My scrawls fill no heart, cause no soul to soar, to such heights;  

that they are then set free

Yet you, with a stroke of a quill, open up our eyes, to scene’s of beauty; akin to ecstasy

 

Could I but collect your words, brushed aside, discarded;

judged unworthy in your poetry

And use them as my own, your scraps would be my treasure;

and this would be my plea

 

That each night, while your poesy, flows sweetly through my mind; they be set to my memory

So when I wake, I remember, all those lofty words, and that they came; from inside me

BOEMS BY JA 536