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.
Copyright © Dill Dennison | Year Posted 2016
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