The Poet

The poet’s a loner, he’s misunderstood.
Nobody gets him and nobody could.
The poet’s a painter, with life as his canvas.
His mind is his brush, his words his palate.
The poet’s a magician. Magic spills from his fingers.
Immortal words on his mortal lips linger.
The poet’s a martyr, he dies for his words.
His spirit is free and soars with the birds.
He’s a splash of color in a black and white world,
The sole voice of reason too often unheard.
The poet takes reason and throws it away,
He says the things no one else can say.
The poet’s a liar, he contradicts from one line to the next.
But no matter what he writes, only truth does he confess.
The poet’s a thief, none of his thoughts are his own.
He draws from inspiration, like a sword from a stone.
The poet’s a killer, he eviscerates in fiction.
He scars in rhyme and murders with diction.
The poet’s a lover, his passion for life unmatched.
He wears his heart on his sleeve like a patch.
The poet’s limited by the places he’s been,
He’s a prisoner trapped in a world of sin.
The poet’s a believer, he looks for the best.
He’s also a worker, rarely does he rest.
The poet’s a dreamer in a perpetual sleep,
The memories of a future world are his to keep.
The poet has a backbone which no man can break
And convictions based on a faith no man can shake.
But when it comes to his heart, that’s a different story.
He fills it with metaphors, similes, and allegories
To hide the pain of a love he once lost
And to cover the shame of what that love cost.
The poet seeks darkness in the midst of light.
The poet does wrong when it’s easier to do right.
The poet treads a fine line between genius and insanity.
The poet’s the best…and the worst of humanity.