The awareness of a natural talent
does not a Poet make.
The pains of birth, the insecurities,
cause her world to quake.

The rushing sounds, of life unbound,
do not a Poet make.
There is something more, the formal lure,
and, so, inside she aches.

She wants it all, clear bugles call,
ambition starts to wake.
Theory divined, in Life-filled mind,
she yearns to come awake.

The push and pull, furthered learning’s hall,
it slithers like a snake.
She wants it all, the final call,
of words, she will partake!

It’s not the form, they become the norm,
she hopes there’s no mistake,
she sees a light, in golden life,
she knows she’s not a fake.

Erin Moen
7/03/03
Copyright 2003 ©

I do not want to write for myself, I want to write for others. I want to write for others... Do idiosyncrasies dwell in the mind of a Poet? Yes, they do! :)