Soul of a Poet Life of a Child

He thought himself a poet Destined to live this lie He wrote the words that no one reads And the world would pass him by For he had no education He could barely read or write But still he wrote his simple words His spelling never right Eighty years old he's seen it all Though he seldom understands Forced to live a simple life A life that fate demands He writes his poems everywhere Even on the back of a cereal box He sleeps all day and writes all night In his underwear and a pair of socks A fall when he was three years old Left his brain a little slow For eighty long years he spoke as a child With a mind that wouldn't grow The soul of a poet and the life of a child He wrote what he felt inside He smiled as he wrote his simple words As his heart was filled with pride