The tongue of the pen,
Licks the wounds of the broken hearted
Those abandoned by the wayside,
Are by no means forgotten,
It would be a sin to press on without them
I have made an oath,
To dwell inside of poetry
Risking the scorn of those of a politically correct mindset,
I prefer my pen to try the personal touch
A shepherd tenderly loves his sheep,
Giving personal attention
A poet is not above those reading his or her works,
As his pen should refresh the eyes,
And soften the hearts of stone
Granted, this is by no means an easy endeavor,
Yet, a noble quest makes for a peaceful heart,
And poetry is for hearts
Weighing my words carefully,
On scales of humility,
I beg not to offend, for this would be my undoing
Yet, the temptation for generalizations of a universal nature,
Removes the colors of life,
Making poetry generic
Thus I do not wish to dwell there,
Though a few in modesty is indeed fitting
Dreams are for dreamers,
And for some, dreams do come true
Dream Poet
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