Thoughts of a Poet

Thoughts of a Poet

What is it today I desire to write?
Something that others have never of heard,
Like can I switch words to help them rhyme right?
Or would that be so completely absurd?

I conclude it doesn’t matter for what is the word
If it cannot describe what truly is me?
Silently in the night I write free as a bird
The words how I may and that’s how they’ll be.

Even now as I write this verse my mind
Is stewing over this ode as I say
That a part doesn’t flow perfectly how I’d like,
But I feel how it is, is how it should stay.

The second verse I admire and how it does work
If I say so myself and as well this next rhyme,
Though, not yet it’s been written I funnily smirk
Because now it has, O, how funny is time?

In this quatrain I’ll rhyme about thought,
And the things in one’s chest that can be heard,
And of consciousness, wow, I rewrote that a lot
Because I’m not even sure how to utter that word.

Truth in the air is like a poem well written,
You feel it as it in your chest so grows,
Many only see words and with them aren’t smitten
By the feel of its love and the way that it flows.

But yes, and is, and isn’t, and all
Are only words, I’m sad for the mind
Of those who see them as opposed to the call
Of the intricate message laying gently behind.

There aren’t words unique enough to portray,
And there aren’t words to describe the touch
Of love when a couple does kneel and pray,
And a whole slew of other mushy things of the such.

I write and wonder of who’ll understand
The thoughts of a poet who silently tries
To write truth in a way the only way that he can,
As he stares out the window at the stars while he sighs.

-Jacob Winterfeldt