So many poems,
I have approached
Please, let me sing your song
I wish to tell your tale,
Madam, I beg you,
Let me plead your case
I desired very much,
To send them on the boardwalk
Yet, my pen is a reader of hearts,
A matchmaker of sorts
Though they excelled in worth and purpose,
They would be better fit in the hands of another
Those with the nature of the blues,
Should carry the marks of one hard pressed,
With the brands of disappointments,
And dead end pursuits
A poem of depression,
Should wear a headdress of melancholy
With no helper for its master,
With no exits at given moments
Calling to my attention,
Wise counsel,
From my pen,
“Patience my friend,
Wait your turn,
For they will come to you,
And these entanglements of life,
Will refine you with the weights,
That your pen will be fit to carry
And once having walked their path,
They will come to you,
It will be a match made in poetic heaven
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