With words he paints the scenes
Giving vision to his dreams
Throwing open all the portals of his heart;
His secret soul’s laid bare
For the world to stop and stare
To applaud or maybe criticize his art.
This price he’ll have to pay
If the bard’s prepared to say
All the things that are a fire within his veins;
No walking middle ground
Though antagonists abound—
Ever free e’en though his words become his chains.
His word craft’s not for gain,
He has no desire for fame—
It’s the avenue to air his heartfelt thoughts;
He cannot quench his pen
Or suppress the fire within;
All his secret contemplations must be brought.
Words on the written page,
Elevate him to a sage—
Compilations— deepest musings from within;
An artist no one knows,
His fragility exposed,
Fears his treasured thoughts seem valueless to men.
Tread lightly you who read
From this empathetic breed—
For they walk on paths long latent to the throng;
Though some may criticize
They might later realize
Written words have paved life’s footpaths all along.
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