Word Weaver's Wisdom

Put pen to paper, words flow forth,
Before the poet, the spirit soars and the readers know it,
For the stroke of genius, touch of magic,
Ecstatic in flight, sleepless at night,
Not frightened of the energy, spent not on enmity,
Draws levity so heavily upon the work so readily,
Read greedily, easily understood, teases the perceivers ears,
Leaving the mind in high gear, subtle and near to divine,
Fine wine beautiful women the mad genius can find,
The crowd listens on, the words draws from wells,
The song of the Prophet, stirred heaven and hell,
Lofty aims and simple gains,
Games played not for profit, they are above it,
Love is it's goal, a poor man with a rich soul,
A poet stands on what is told, when in demand, his words are gold,
He can't be sold to the masses, passes up opportunity to seek lunacy,
Desires to be free, ultimately, finally and within a greater reality,
Finality and ultimatums, debates of the tyrants that hate him,
Threatened by his hidden power, the rogue in him they will devour,
The Pen taken from his hand, once again the man must make a stand,
The rhymes and rhythms in full flower,
Drowned out by the sounds of the shouting crowds,
Brazen and loud, the proud and mighty,
Can frighten me, though often they may delight me if they so please,
Enlighten me, put me at my ease, sometimes they tease so playfully,
And unravel my sanity, gladly they hand it back to me,
No attacks to put me on my knees.
In the end, Ego feeds only on vanity.

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