The Poet

Sitting at his desk, with his notebook and pen,
he scribbles down words, that rhyme now and then
his purpose for poetry, is not personal gain
it's a means of expressing his infinite pain

Some rhymes are good and some are bad,
some words don't rhyme at all, some rhymes are sad,
from his burdened heart, with emotions raw
he writes with memory of everything he saw

Like a battered warrior, he walks alone,
sometimes even typing his rhymes on his phone
his friends and family, though they all surround
he lives his life in rhyme, like nobody's around

He carries many burdens, a weight unbearably heavy,
his shoulders are soaked by the tears of many
the tears he sheds himself, are of memories that linger
relief so far away, he cant point a finger

His words are a window in to his heart,
his life as a writer, with poetry did start
and when those words, don't come out right
he keeps on writing, he doesn't quit without a fight

Bad choices and decisions, define his entire life,
too many times the recipient of the proverbial knife
some hearts are meant to carry heavier burdens than others
the Poet lives a burdened life, writing rhyme without bother