The Poet

The silver tongue,
That lies inside of my mouth,
Quick is it's wit and sharp is it's blade

I am a man of calling,
The silver tongue is but a tool,
The tool of who I really am, a poet

A poet cannot deny himself,
He must look at the world and ask why,
ask why and how, forever regardless of how rude

one plus one equals two,
And adding another one equals three,
Yet the poet asks, "How does singles become a double, or a double a triple?"

He questions,
The very nature of divine,
And the very nature of the life, we all live

He is not satisfied,
With a simple, "This is how things are."
There is always more to a story than a single sentence

No tale of man or his belief,
Was ever summed up so easily,
It does no honor to The Odyssey, or to Beowulf

To end any tale as a simply is,
The Poet would never accept such droll,
It is no where near complete, just as a life story is not

But what point is a poet's tongue?
Why the same point as any gift, to be used!
A man of the mind must think, and he must learns

The same is true of a woman of song,
Her heart will pull her to sing, sing until there is no voice in her,
She will filled up the concert hall with weeping listeners, awe by her voice

As the singer sing,
Her passion takes form,
So true does the Poet's when he speaks

His tongue is not meant for awe,
It is meant to change and twist what is defined,
It is meant to share a new belief or stance, a new way to see the same light

The rose has been defined by every poet,
Yet we all know of it, and accept it as a flower,
Do you take it as a message of love, or a metaphor of live?

This is the Poet's right,
To change what is define,
Revision the world to an new style,

So will you face my wit,
Challenge my steel, best my blade
Make this poet be the fool, will you prove me wrong?