In the people who stroll slowly by
He detects each roll of the eye;
But those he sees (their poorly hidden snickers)
Are the breeze, through a trees leaves
His trunk unmoved still, his verses still spill
The page is hungry, so he doesn`t wait
Leaving the ridicule to the sneering tricksters
Perhaps, it`s that he looks grungy, regardless his mind
generates
Well-polished poetry – and these words in patterns, he
disperses.
Their mocking – the sea, and he – a boat
Though they are rocking him as they gloat…
His vessel`s not stopping, he`s still afloat
Every attempt to cause him to sink, to push him to the brink
Is: motivation to elevate, what he will think;
Leaving trails of ink, repetitive ripples smoothing each
kink.
Every so often his ship is lost in a storm, of hatred and
scorn;
Leaving his spirit worn, the mind torn, poetry – forlorn -
Yet, as the tempest is shorn, new momentum is born.
And, once in a while, as the stanzas pile;
All furious animosity and woeful regrets –
He rapidly releases, drops anchor and forgets;
When he is met, with some stranger`s friendly smile.
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