The unkempt poet on Old Holloway road.
I fear the truth,
just as you do,
the things I have done,
I cannot undo;
the things I am not,
they will find the truth.
At least, in my defence,
let me say this,
I sought to speak the truth;
perhaps not my own,
but of other's plight,
I tried to bring to light.
Sometimes, I like to play around,
watch the words dance hand in hand,
at other times, I simply forget to write 'impressively',
or forgo it completely,
I try to build a pretty picture,
though not bereft of meaning,
inspired by those before me,
and the friends around.
Poetry for me, to tell you the truth,
is a person's captured thoughts;
it is their attempt, sometimes,
to tell an engaging story,
to entertain you too.
I fail though,
for the best of the lot
are those that not only contain a grain of truth,
prose that can make the blind see,
but also where the poet is invisible,
where you and I are inseparable,
like John Keats' Trust,
or Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata,
where inspiration is at the heart of it,
sage and skill, between the ears,
and a mastery of an art,
that has eased their passage to stars far and wide.