Another poem rests upon my lips

That my tongue refuses to speak

Words dancing around my mind

Begging to be freed

And if I try ignoring them

They are gone so easily

Never to return

lost

Indefinitely

I write poetry because of a man I know,

He's well known for his name Cyrano,

Fighting and slashing with his words,

Forcing his enemies into herds.

I love poetry because of Blake,

His fearful words that make me quake,

Behold and awe in wondrous sight,

Tigers in the forest of the night.

Writing

is my little way

of inventing an audience

that never gets tires

of listening

to me

Look around

Realization hits you

They don't care

They're too busy worrying

About everyone else's problems

They aren't like you

You're different

Stop trying to impress people who won't understand

Do what you want to do

Don't recede into a shell

Depressed

Lonely

Silent

Don't be silent

Write

Express

Inspire

Because someone somewhere

Will want to thank you for changing their life

A simple form of prose,

I find it very easy.

From noose to nose,

Writing right can get pretty crazy.

I struggle to speak, stuttering, and

The words won't come out right,

But poetry is a beautiful thing.

I could do this all night!

So, why do I write poetry?

Why, it's easy for me to do.

I hardly try, and the words fly by,

But now, I must bid you adieu!