The weatherman told me
The sky would be grey,
The thick blankets that bind us
Will be here for days.

My teacher of English
Thinks that art can be taught,
That ideas and murals
Are yours once they’re bought.

I’ve a friend down in Paris
Whom they all call insane,
Of all of his brain cells
Seldom few still remain.

I’ve traded ideas
With signposts and chairs,
I’ve pondered good magic
Laughed at fruit flies and bears

I’ve climbed many mountains,
Tripped down many a hill,
Been the worst, been the best,
Used my power of will.

Through it all, I have realized,
The bright blue of this sky
Doesn’t fit with the statement
Of the weatherman’s cry.

Yes, I own many paintings
Witch are sharp and divine,
But alough they reside here
None of them are just mine.

The eccentric, unreal?
Difference is in need,
For without those free sprits,
Where would poetry feed?

Theres no hidden message
Within these here words,
I’m simply writing
To make my point heard.

I’ve only one question
Before I let go,
Whats the weather tomorrow?
I mean really, who knows?