Everything in sight is bland,
Not a speck of color is seen upon the cemented walls,
Nor are the once glorious books.
Thoughtful- hand crafted words spilling out of every page.
But now they are basic lines.
Not even enough to intrigue the simplest of minds.
For there might as well be no poetry at all,
If it is not skillful carved by the imaginative mind,
Each line and word proving to be it's very own.
But what good is poetry,
Without a skilled writer.
Being insighted with the hidden beauties,
Like the ripple behind the skipped stone.
Or the quiet songs of the birds.
The poet who will forever change art,
With the swiftest movements of ink,
Is able to turn those beauties of life,
Into triumphant words.
For those who have yet to experience life.
Your work is the map of the people,
Every line crafted so cautiously,
That it is not needed to leave your house.
The poem is for the mind,
But a mind is needed to create.
