The Writer's Forum
A place to read, publish and comment on both Fiction and Non-Fiction
The Poet's Creation
The poet, with thoughts in his head,
Studying, concentrating. All has to be
quiet and still.
Ink in his pot, he picks up his pen,
While he thinks out his plot.
The desk that he sits at is made of
beautiful wood,
Very highly polished and proud
of where it stood.
His paper sits on top of his desk.
All very neat and correct,
He’s waiting to be discovered.
Concentration is hard to connect.
His mind wanders to many things,
As he stares into space.
The darkness comes down on him,
But he’s lost in thoughts all of his own.
He writes line after line into the night,
Then the dusk comes, but he’s weary and a sight.
“Off to my bed I will go.”
He gets up, but he’s all so slow.
Suddenly he sees through himself.
“I am so lonely and frail,
Yet love never came to me,
I’m such a sad tale.”
His poem had been there all the time,
A sheer reflection of his life.
He was no inspiration to others,
He had never had a lady wife.
The sorrow on his face
Puts everything in it’s place.
His writing takes precedence over many things,
But is he happy tonight?
The poet can experience a torment in life
That brings him to this haven,
He has a reluctance to talk about it
And so for this moment he prefers just to sit.
By Patricia Preece
The 2009 3rd place runner-up!
Patricia's entry won her: