Were this life a dictation of title,
Were we all no more than our label,
A poet I would be for all eternity.
Born into the skewed world of words
Where pain is food and
Anger my sustenance .
Were I forced to choose a solitary path,
I would walk the road of the writer.
For my scenery would be that much clearer.
Lines constructed of words.
Flowers formed by the stanzas
I ofttimes find on his lips.
Trees dancing with letters,
Who's leaves sing Shakespeare
Yes. If there was only one day to this life,
I would spend it looking for the words
That could somehow touch
The writer born tomorrow
to take my place.