To Be a Poet

A poem is hardly defined and barely confined

     Within its borders emotions roar and soar

Words of black spark flames of red

     Most can splatter the canvas but few can paint it

An internal monologue of pure simplicity yet vast complexity

     To craft words from the chaos is practically impossible

Unless you are a poet           

     Who is not an ordinary thinker

A poet’s words are the brush’s strokes

     Thin or thick, dark or light

Seen by most but understood by few

     To dream in black and white but to describe it in color

Short or long, choppy or lengthy, happy or melancholy

     To be a poet is to speak to all with silent words

That are the loudest they will ever hear