Several thousand poems
yet I still await the one
Illusive, it’s beyond my reach
although the words still come

The lines still form, the craft remains
the pen is never still
I capture life, I write it down
and never have my fill

Somewhere out there are the lines
that every poet seeks
A perfect recreation of
a mind that never sleeps

So I’ll always write , it’s all of me
and part of who I am
Crafting words to poetry
for life because I can

And those unreachable illusive words
the ones I seek to find
are my spur for ever onwards
as I write what’s on my mind


4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. lifecameos
    Oct 27, 2016 @ 06:41:19

    Yes this happens to every poet

    Liked by 1 person


  2. Abigail Gronway
    Jul 25, 2018 @ 14:06:33

    The perfect definition of the poet

    Liked by 1 person


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