THE POET AND I

My simple words are like scratches on a flat desolate rock, that no one else will ever see
Yours, intricate words engraved on shinny granite, a monument; to what poetry should be

My expression, tortured streams of vowels; begging to be saved; drowning in vast seas
While your verses, paint a lush green landscape; with exploding blooms, from cherry trees

My scrawls fill no heart, cause no soul to soar to such heights; that they are then set free
Yet you, with a stroke of a quill, open up our eyes to scene's of beauty; akin to ecstasy

Could I but collect your words, brushed aside, discarded; judged unworthy in your poetry
And use them as my own, your scraps would be my treasure; and this would be my plea

That each night, while your poesy flows sweetly through my mind; they be set to my memory
So when I wake, I remember all those lofty words, and that they came; from inside me

BOEMS by JA 536