Hand of the Poet
By: Jeff R. Young
The clarity of humanity guides the poet's pen
A beginning to an ending only he knows when
The tip of the pen demands our respect
For a rhythm of words we've come to expect
The story of love isn't all it brings
As we cling to our most precious things
We lose ourselves in our disguise
Hiding from the world that we despise
Our anger's burning deep inside
As we slip into a backward slide
The pain within is much too real
Through broken hearts we all must feel
But as I gauge my future from my past
And sink into the memories I've amassed
Death has a design that I cannot see
I know eventually he will come for me
All life is written like a penciled poem
In the vision of the poet is where I roam
Whether I'm in love or I burn with hate
It's the lines on the paper that control my fate
The poet is the puppeteer and master of dreams
He brings me my solitude or a night of screams
Through happiness or misery I must ascend
And at the conclusion of his vision I shall find my end
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