The Thoughts Of a Poet

To be able to scribble down what comes to mind is as peaceful as a babbling to brook to me. To sing, shout, cry, and laugh or even to simply be. For what is a writer who can not express her words, would be like a sky who had not a single group of birds. Simple be a fat cat moving in soundlessly to caught its' prey. Or a youngster in the dark yelling three times a name I should not say. Why is it not the poets who illuminate the design, Painting the big picture with just a sign. For are we not merely saying what's on our mind, At least that's what I do when I find words to bind. A poet when angry as a loin locked in a steel cage Can create a masterpiece on a blank page. A poet when sad as a dog left in the cold, Can write a Greek tragedy bold. A poet in love as new lovers in Italy, Can describe a great love so wittily. So why does a poet write the way they do? While it is as simple to me as an actor goes on cue.