The Poet's Pen
With this thing,
A poet can sketch,
The beauty of trees and rain,
This thing is main,
Without this thing, it looks,
As if an ice-cream is without smack,
Or the brain with a crack.
So, this thing you ken,
It’s the poet’s precious pen.
Thoughts are unlimited,
But my brain’s cerebrum is limited,
So there’s a need to express,
My pen which is so kind,
Does it for me, it’s a must
Without my dear pen,
My mind would have burst.
So, this thing you ken,
It’s the poet’s precious pen.
So, I think that every poet gives compact,
To this fact,
That half of the credit for their tact,
Goes to the pen,
With which a poet,
Can describe the secret lion’s den,
Or the funny movements of a hen.
So, this thing you ken,
It’s the poet’s precious pen.
Copyright © Harshita Chaudhary | Year Posted 2017
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