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Thinking on the poet’s plight I find some solace in the night

Those gentle words kept out of sight, that rest in forgotten fields

 

We look to names renowned and bold, on which true words are bought and sold

And told that we must fit the mold, but such is surely misleading

 

For I find the greatest kind of sight, comes not from those who shine so bright

But from those who find their own delight, we’re each of us a’glowing

 

I delight in poets commonplace, whose sole claim to poet lies in their face

Whose name in libraries you won’t find a trace, the unsung heroes of households

 

The Shakespeares, Poes and William Blakes, are surely not to be forsaked

But is the best poem not the one we make? With hearts and souls reflecting  

 

The common man has much to say, if he could only find a way

To break his chains and seize the day, for alas all time is fleeting

 

And are the chains not poems themselves, those tragedies we stock on shelves?

Some shared story of our forlorn selves, that shed a light onto our shackles

 

For each of us must find our way, but which ways right and who’s to say?

With the morning sun comes a new day, and the poem of life a’ blazing