The Poet's Soul

From beauty and pain it’s often born;

With those that laugh, with those that mourn.

It builds deep within the chest,

And makes the soul feel quite restless.

Though you mock the pain and sorrow,

Or sentiment at beauty great,

Still he writes upon the morrow,

And longings of his soul does sate.

Long it’s been that I have kept,

The reflections deep inside of me.

I did not speak a single word,

For fear of other’s mockery.

But not unlike the prophets old,

It burns harshly, deeply, down within.

My shell does crack, and out it comes,

Though I have fought to keep it in.

A portrait on a landscape fair,

A thought bestirred in morning air,

A feeling one cannot describe,

A song that’s sung, quite deep inside.

A curse, or a gift, is the question I pose;

For often times it seems as both.

The glass, it is neither half-empty or full;

The range of emotion makes one feel as a fool.

But blessing or curse, it matters not which,

For to some it’s a struggle a whole life to spend.

Of Courage and Laughter, and Sadness, and Pain;

These things are what the Soul of a Poet is made.