I Wish I Were A Poet

I’ve tried my hand at writing and

Find it very hard to do.

I sit and stare at paper bare,

Wishing I could be a poet, too.

How I love thee, wasn’t written by me,

Nor have I ever counted the ways.

Or would I have thought while wars were fought,

Poems were born in those hard days.

Great many men have taken to pen,

To express their deepest concerns.

But try as I may, there ain’t no way,

I can compete with Poe or Burns.

There are those who haven’t a clue,

Of what should be written.

But I am telling you I know it is true,

That once you rhyme you are smitten.

Each and every thought, a poem will be sought

And you cannot clear your head.

You’ll scribble all the time searching for rhyme,

Amazed at what you’ve written and said.

A writer’s done well, you can usually tell,

If a story has been told.

Or near the end the words may send

Chills that are blustery cold.

There may be a silence creeping through the audience,

Like you’ve never heard.

Or a teardrop falls or someone calls,

About your way with words.

I’ve tried my hand at writing and

Find it very hard to do.

I sit and stare at paper bare,

Wishing I could be a poet, too.

©kwd/2011