The Poet

Spinning webs of words,
constructs and contrivances,
weaving tapestries of emotion,
of image,
words on paper
from the depths of my soul,
portraits painted,
a palette of twenty-six letters
splattered, ala Pollack,
across a lined canvas,
my life, my story
in couplet, in verse,
played as a harp, or
a piano of verbs and nouns,
a symphony of words
tales of unrequited love,
of the swells of passion,
words to win hearts,
to challenge minds,
to get me laid,
to piss you off,
to fuck you up,
to outrage,
to pacify,
these make my concerto,
my song sans melody,
I am
the poet.

© 2008 Michael Shelby