Humblest of Poets
Across the horizon of my petty mind
When all doors are closed this one door I find
A simple door it is, a plank and a lock
And the only key I have is the quietest of knocks
It opens with a creek, and the dark dusty floor
Tastes not a peck of light, but oh so much more.
Now the first time this tired, broken  little boy, looked through the little keyhole
Beyond lay the weirdest of nights, not a star, not a soul.

But oh how much more black was the mess he was already in
Alone he was with neither friend nor kin
He stepped into this new realm, with wounds so sore
Fed up of the life he loved no more
His final hope before him, he took a step in
Like a broken little fish, with a broken little fin
I stepped in today as I was lost in time
The eyes that beheld it then are no longer mine
He saw a blank sheet of paper
The epitome of emptiness

I saw a new idea and my source of happiness
Besides it he saw barely, it was dark, a thin stick of plastic,
With a tiny ball nib and a bottle of ink
And that thoughtful pen with the rubber grip band
Took the pale hand of the crippled boy, and
Helped him make a stand

With a piece of mind in hand, I stand here now
And In front of all who see I take a neat bow
Because the audience awaits my new found thought
In the end it is only mine and cannot be bought
How can’t I thank this empty sheet
That listened and didn’t judge the perspective I see
And now I am here, head held high and strong, I know it
These proud marks of ink speak for the humblest of poets