The Struggles of a Poet

Weak and weary, the hand shakes with the pen,

Struggling, throbbing, again and again.

No word comes to mind, no feeling sets in,

And if the pain cared (which it didn't), it'll win.

Somehow, a web spun itself alone,

Somewhere, a king sits upon a broken throne.

Someone who knows tales speaks high and low,

Someone else desires to steal his show.

A poet sits and ponders what rhymes to use,

Then stops and puffs, knowing his cues.

A man who once held love in his heart,

Now hardly beckons to be apart,

From that which he loved. His pen! no less,

Why he loved it! The beauty! A soft caress.

Now he waits paitently, for someone to join,

And yet, nobody bothered to throw him a coin.