The Unfinished Poem

The poet tells his story As he writes it with his heart His feelings, his inspiration Is where his poem starts He tries to help us understand His suffering and his pain His pen and paper, his only voice As he tries his best to explain He labors for what seems like hours For the words to pierce our souls He's ever watching his meter And the rhythm that it flows The perfection he seeks is elusive For it's all a matter of taste But knowing that the words he used Could never go to waste For now, his soul is emptied And his pain, somewhat diminished He knows his relief is fleeting And his poem remains unfinished You see, the poet is a prisoner To the words that fill his heart From where his first poem ends Is where his next poem starts