Amateur or pro at mike,
poets are just people alike.
Expressing living fines,
in just a few lines.
Telling a whole story,
in short form glory.

Painting pictures in rhyme,
transcending through time.
Seperating word from grind,
placing on view to mind.
Poets don't just sat,
they swing pen at bat,
pen word to mat.

Inner struggles choking,
end up in word provoking.
Inside joys of delight,
come to life in sight.
After all the smoke has cleared,
poets may get cheered,
or end up in disgrace,
in search of true face.

Once true face is found,
no critic can bring, 
the poet down.
Fame and fortune
may call,
at least only a stall,
a legend in own mind,
others never find.

G