The little man inside my skull <br />who makes me write some rather dull <br />and even boring diatribes <br />has just this morning sent some vibes <br />that as of yesterday he would <br />write real poems as he should. <br /> <br />He had a pretty dumb excuse, <br />I think it could be called a ruse. <br />He needed practice, so he said <br />and living there inside my head <br />he didn't get to travel much, <br />for inspiration, thoughts and such. <br /> <br />Though now, he's found, through clever means <br />how to partake in life's own scenes. <br />He's noticed that the inner ear <br />which after all is there to hear <br />receives the fragments of a word, <br />and out he flies with it, a bird! <br /> <br />The reason that he's never known <br />(thus roundabout he's never flown) <br />is simply that he never thought <br />that small, creative creatures ought <br />to value input of the masses, <br />which does include small talent classes. <br /> <br />Now that he's seen the poet's light <br />he recognises all the bright <br />and thoughtful, smart, exquisite souls <br />who write not for some lofty goals <br />but for the joy that it instills, <br />and -well - to flaunt poetic skills. <br /> <br />The little man is so much calmer <br />now that he's read the works of Palmer. <br />Observed the little man (who's sane) : <br />'Much confidence can make you vain.'<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-poet/
