The Poet and Thee Greatest Poem Never Spoke

WAIT! the poet laughed there's love to document there's passion, there's hate! WAIT! where's my pen, my typer? my life is my art Living passed by and the world did it's thing, rotating, tilting, and changing but the poet sat idle, conjuring thought he dreamt aloud, awake of simple times he drank he smoked, lied, and bargained yet never put into motion what realities he should have, could have sought funny how it happens for the poet poetically tragic, this nothing whatsoever WAIT! cried the overweight, medicated poet cornered by walls of his own brain such a creative mind wasting away a mind with fingers no friends, and without eyes the Poet scurried, smelling rain one day so he looked to the window and wrote "Thee Greatest Poem Never Spoke" trees gave leaves to fall and winter gave way to crawl then blew it's load the poet spoke again, WAIT! these beauteous seasons are the very reason my pen leaks prolific ink of lines so great then spring sprung bells rang and flings flung but the poet failed to dare to love women and children and angels passed his tearful face and he gasped WAIT! I must write and express and show this amazing grace sadly summer came and went again upon it's glorious exodus the poet wrote and wrote more and more of stars he never saw and of rain his skin failed to feel and of things he could only imagine tears of everything doused the poet's pale cheek and he ate the pain which enveloped him dim lights appeared as a nightmare and finally one bright light of tunnel vision sizzled his name the name he'd long since forgotten just like everyone else wait...the poet whimpered wait... tho' fate would not, could not, WAIT.