The Poet

In a corner all alone
a lonely poet writes a song
his words are flustered, spelling’s wrong
he has not been a poet long
but while he ponders, trying strong
a cavalcade of rhyme along
a theme of beauty once undone
by a scriptures' abstract minded tale

In pity of his solitude
where in a mist of soft perfume
surviving in his darkened room
from glaring of a windowed moon
he’s starving while his visions loom
a hastened word, a pretty tune
his song has ended far too soon
a crumpled poem wasted out of fear

Again he’ll try to show his wrath
while struggling on some bloody path
where once before he tumbled past
but in the race he finished last
and when he stopped he heard the crash
obscenities were shouted to his ear

But still he tried it once again
just proving that he was not sane
he could not quite control his brain
he thought it wise, he knew it lame
he plundered onward just the same
and flopping like a whooping crane
this song you hear is what’s to blame
before you frown I have a moral too

I am not him, he was some other man
I tried to tell him but he would not understand
that to conquer fame you must be crazy too