Scribbled Thoughts

Is it true that poets feel too much,

And with their words encapsulate,

Those thoughts that never cross your mind,

That tongues can’t often articulate?

There’ll come a day the fiery orb no more shines,

Some words may die in books on a broken shelf,

But my tired pen will never give up trying,

And poetry will quietly write itself.

I thought I was a poet too,

It sparked within me a newfound zeal,

Let poems whisper soft adieus,

And let their bliss my wounds conceal.

I wrote of all the simpler times,

Of battles fought at eerie hours,

Of the deafening silence of the enveloping night,

Of the skies lined with a thousand broken stars.

My parchment palm with scribbled lines,

The monotony of rusted piano keys,

The sun-tanned beach and freckled cheeks,

Were just a mere muse to me.

Without these words, nights would seem accursed,

No passions stirred. No ripples made.

I would lie there weaving dreams for you,

While my creativity would slowly fade.

And while the rest spent their days away,

In the metropolis, amidst a crowd of men,

I sat in the warm confines of my room,

And lost myself to Beethoven.

Poems were more than just an art form for me

But my pages were once lined with dust,

I was like an ancient wanderer,

And words were like my wanderlust.

And when they quietly envelope your soul,

And leave you paralyzed for a fleeting second or two,

We’re lost in a vast sea of thoughts,

I’d save you but I’m drowning too.

It’s true that poets feel too much,

And with their words encapsulate,

Those thoughts that never cross your mind,

That tongues can’t often articulate