A Poet and Simply Nothing More

This world will never know me, who I am within my core. It seems as if superficial expressions, leave nothing to explore. So no one ever comes, to rap upon my door. Through a window in my heart, my soul remembers how to soar. Nothing special seen of me, likewise, no good reason to adore. Words give to me a purpose, a shining light, where none was seen before. When others read my work, understanding soon becomes a chore. They act as if their picking up the broken pieces, of the man I was before. Pieces of a puzzle, devoid of any interest, which incite the mind to bore. I am only twenty-seven, not nearly old enough to feel this damn hoar. With minds akin to chests, to see inside, they must open up a drawer. Only then will the world realize, just what I have in store. My words will shake the bedrock, by causing a thunderous roar. Every letter transmitting new ideas, can they envision such a spore. What mundane has stripped away, I promise we would restore. To hell with common anything, with the characterless we would go to war! Sharp words upon the front lines, the tusk of a mighty boar. Once they have vanquished, pushed to the furthest edge of sore. We would tear apart the ordinary, lavishing ourselves with the gore. We would peer across a sea of puce, with our feet planted firmly upon the shore. If only words were relevant, and did not act as merely document decor. I suppose the same goes for me, just as I had said before. To understand what is locked inside, you must first get through the door. This world will never know me, who I am within my core. I can't will the world well, I am just a poet, and simply nothing more.