A Poet?

A Poet?
Quizmo LaGrande

A question I find brewing
In my thoughts and in my core,
Asked by one thought closely
Knows my being, yet adore,

“Aspire you, dear woman,
Be a poet?” he did ask.
I had to stop and question,
“What meaning care you grasp?

“A poet? Yes I am,
Every day and every night!
A poet I can’t help,
The words blight me, the words fight
To enter my conviction,
To be placed upon my page!
They rival for encryption,
They rival to enslave
Every raw emotion
Every song that sings to me,
From waves the ocean rises,
Words fall victim to my sea!
From clouds the sunrise gathers,
Morning scatters in its art
To fog and rain and heartbreak
Words form a tender part
Of all that I imagine
Of all my tender be,
Words this poet harbors,
Words that echo me!”

Quickly he rescinded,
Quickly he replied,
“I know you are a poet
But my question is to why,
Or whether that you care
To be paid a tidy sum
To write the words that only
You deliver with such drum
And rhythm, perfect rhyme,
In a daily heated boil,
Would you mind, my darling bard,
If the story were uncoiled?”

“And someone know about me?
Horrors! Uncover who I am?
Only you, sweet love, can tout me,
Only you know poet’s end.
Paid interest is a blessing;
Publication for the best,
But me, my dearest darling,
Likes anomaly from rest!
From pirates to philanthropists,
Philosophers to Poe,
It’s likely that this poet
Will discover pilgrims’ woe.”

A poet seldom lives to be
Delivered from his fate;
A poet just considers words
An angel at their gate.