The Poet.

He lives in his mind.
He wanders and thinks.
The poet closes his eyes,
and sees his beautiful world.

When he wanders through tree arched
groves, he is picturing the trees
as words, the sun as a symbol.

He takes his life, his feelings
and emotions and makes them
the sun. He takes his lost love
and makes her the trees.

The poet, wanders by fish filled
streams and likens it to a
a highway filled with cars. The
rippling sounds of the gentle
waters open his senses.

A lonely hut on the beach, he sees
himself, lonely and waiting. He takes
his loses and puts them into the words of
the beautiful house. Have they not lead
a similar life?

Gently wandering the poet is
always aware of himself. The poet
always wants to share, through beautiful
words of expression he shows you his
life on paper.

He takes every little thing and
puts its beauty to words. He takes every
emotion and makes them a being. The
poet seldom opens his eyes, for the reality
we see is meerly an illusion caused
by lack of words.


Pic : Again, I so wish i could draw sketches