A Poet With a Priceless Pen

I am poet with a priceless pen born to burnish the beauty of men. I wonder what mortal mirrors reflect... For me, all races deserve respect. I often hear the splashing of rain, and flood rushing down the drain. I see the petals of the morning bloom and dawn peeping into my dusky room. I strive to forget the tales of ages long gone when dreams died as deeds undone. I am a poet with a priceless pen born to burnish the beauty of men. I pretend to be a terrific tree sapping the tears that betide me. I feel old scars opening each time my heart tends to commit new crime. I touch the heart of the gentle moon and worry if the Sun will shine at noon. I cry for the youth and aged in need and for gluttons in the grave of greed. I hear the whispers of wealth and wisdom flowing freely from the field of freedom... I am a poet with a priceless pen born to burnish the beauty of men. I understand the chains of our choices; frailties of our fate; our darn differences. I say let us not preen on what is not ours, we will leave them in the six-feat towers. I crave a world without woes and worries; the mortal mall of matchless memories where everyone trades a lasting legacy... and love is shared on the platter of mercy. I long to see gray skies turn blue and my sweetest dreams come true. I am a poet with a priceless pen born to burnish the beauty of men.