My Desire

A poet penned about a lamb

                               and by whose hand it had been made.

A poet chose and unworn path,

and saved the second for another day.

I read poems because to me,

they seem to be between.

A story told near firelight,

And a song that you can't help but sing.

But writing one, well,

That is for, a far higher race.

For putting prose to paper,

I fear, I would be a disgrace.

So I dream of all the scholars

Whose words so easily flow.

And hope that the poems inside me,

Someday the world will know.

Till then I'll write of nonsense.

Of whatever comes to mind.

And I'll have to be satisfied with,

Childish fancy and simple rhyme.

Reviews

[Surnam]

I'm sure you will find your voice soon. The writing is so honest.