Homeless Poet

 Homeless Poet

A homeless poet’s what I’ve been.

Stuck on the outside, always looking in.

Paying my dues with handfuls of blues

Trying to win, but managing to loose.

Sometimes the words come without any control,

They come from some place, deep within my soul

From my heart, to my pen, to paper, to your ears,

I bear my soul, you know all of my fears.

If I was a king, would I write the same thing?

I think not, life experience doesn’t

Come with a crown, and a ring.

So I’m happy to be who God made me to be,

With a tortured soul, inside of me,

Because, I know that I tortured myself, you see.

God gave me the good, and I chose the bad,

I could have been happy, instead of being mad,

So as my tears fall to the paper below,

They are tears of joy, I still have love in my soul.

R. F. Sorrell

5/14/2014