Everyone Has A Poet

Everyone has a poet,

Who loves to swing words around,

Mashing them together either in the manner of a

Stone against stone,

Or like a soft vegetable mixed with warm cream.

Some like a little sweetness so,

They add a little sugar and perhaps a pinch of cinnamon.

Some, on the other hand, like a little spice,

So they take hold of nearby chillies and sprinkle them in.

Whatever means one uses, their poet remains

Either stationary and dormant, unmoving in times when life already moves on its own,

Or active, ongoing and engaged,

Describing how life breathes,

How it coils itself around the objects which we touch and perceive,

Thus making the experience all the more

Worthwhile.

Should the poet retreat,

Or be sequestered to a place

Where we can seldom meet them,

Then we find ourselves with a cold feeling in our hands.

Our mind feels like it runs the same course over and over

With each morning, noon, and night

Having no sunshine, no hope nor light.

Every so often, then, I recomend:

Awaken the poet and have them send

You good phrases and good things to keep in mind,

For our delicate human nature, our human kind,

Is so preoccupied with keeping awake a machine

Rather than allowing the poet to be seen.