The doorway to my mind,
once again shall be forever closed.
For words I used to fling,
like birds notes as they sing,
Have all been properly disposed.
This world that I tried to change,
has kept me hidden from its view.
So I would begin to think,
that my words just stink,
although that may not be actually true?
Thinking of myself as a poet
though maybe nothing more than a bumbling fool.
From my heart I would pour,
simple words to adore,
but perhaps I should have studied poetry in school.
Yet a sadness still grips my heart,
like a thorny rosebush as it grows.
With the beauty of its flowers,
growing skyward as it towers,
though near it no one ever goes.
Many poets say they are not poets.
I say this mere fact is simply untrue.
For the words you write,
are read with pure delight,
once written from the soul within you.
Some guy who thought he was a poet