"I'm a poet," she said, and proceeded to show me.

“I’m a poet,” she said, and proceeded to show me.

Her eyes started to twinkle, pale silver on green.

“When I write, it’s like magic, with words as the wand.”

She smiled as she took the pen in her hand.

“I can do whatever I want with words, don’t you see?

I can make them form dancers, dogs, cats, or even just me.

If I could I’d just sit, all day and all night, and I’d write and I’d write. And I’d write, write, write, write!”

She made a swirl on the page in the shape of an A. Then she looked up at me and said,

“Now you may.”

She gave me the pen and stood by to see

As I took up the pen and waited on poetry.

“I can’t,” I say. “The words don’t come to me.”

“Oh just wait,” She replies. “Be patient, you’ll see.

They’ll dance a waltz, do a jig on the page of your mind.

Mixed, jumbled, scattered, all wrong, undesigned.

That’s what makes it a poem can’t you see, can’t you feel?

‘Tis for this reason only, that poetry’s real.

Though the words make no sense, with no point, no design,

In them’s emotions, rhythms and rhymes.

For though many will listen, and many will cheer,

There’s few with the poet’s heart needed to hear.”