The portraits of the mind

The portraits of the mind

What is a poem
What difference does it make?
A collage of words intertwines
Mostly of love or our past mistakes

Sometimes it’s about life 
The good side of it and the bad
Or little humorous pastels of a story
That can cheer us up when we are sad

The poet is not always understood
And most of the times are not appreciated
Writing poems after poems 
picking the mind of hidden words to be dictated

Why does a poet write 
And the answer is that " he don't know
When he picks his pen
The words just naturally begin to flows

True poet words are sharp as a knife
And it can carve your emotions deep within
Poem of loneliness or of a lost love 
Or Something funny to have you smiling

A poet sees the world 
From a different point of view
And with words, they paint a picture
That can clearly project itself to you

The pen of a poet
Is to reach the reader's heart
And if a poem won't make that connection
Then a true poet won't even bother to start

Just like a tree alone on a hill
A poet is alone in the world he lives
A poet is a true champion of love
But love is something he cannot give

His heart is forever restless
Longing for the one true love that he misses
Because he can only fall in love once in his life
And every love poem he writes he thinks of her kisses

But love can’t stay in his life
Although he loves her with all of his heart
The restlessness in his soul
Is the reason they are apart

A poet carries with him 
A heart that's filled with pain
And a smile to hide it
A lone walker in the rain

The mind of a poet
Are sometimes call the mind of a fool
And he can write a beautiful story of a horse
While looking at a stubborn old mule

And to him love is everlasting
That’s why he hurts so much
Because the only girl he loves
They are now distant and out of touch

and though he feels damned
he sees from the eyes of an angel
and he strives to change the world
with the stories that he tells

A poet tries to hide the deep anguish of his heart
And when his pens cry it sounds like sweet music playing
And people would gather and say
That is sweet music make your pen sing again

And the poet would take his bow
And look at the sun
As it rains in his heart
Nothing to lose and nothing won