My tendrils pierce the dark dank earth
Looking for a place to bloom
"Come here, youll love it" croons a voice
"No, here, it's a great field" wafts another
Birds chirp overhead intelligibly
Patches of light filter through the topsoil
Praire dogs speak of a new life
A new home if I wish
I want a nourishing field, and know what it looks like
But not what the surface looks like
Smells of dirt, flitters of light
Offer tantalizing hints
The voices try to guide, but are trapped in themselves
As am I
I gather my breath and all that I have
and pierce
I am not a poet
Just a drawing board
Painting model with my noble pen
Beyond the scope of fame with aim
Like a loyal pretender
I am not a poet
But a sick mind
Seeking refuge in art
Not to go totally blind
Without life in my heart
I am not a poet
Rather, I am a noise maker
Whose pen is a sword
Yet, can't hunt for games
Or go near the den
I am not a poet
Let me say this clearly
I don't write cavalierly
Neither do I ink intelligibly
Though, I won't stop jogging in my closet
I am not a poet
Take it or leave it
Running will come naturally
Then voices will sing
My classical KING forever...
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