I cannot help but like this poem. - poetheart 08/13/01
A poet cannot help but write-
But oh, so hard to know,
The subject, meter, count of words
In which his poem should go.Yet in his soul, the flame doth burn
To share those words of rhyme-
And so he takes his pen in hand-
And tries time after time.Frustrated artist, he or she-
When pouring out their soul
Receive no single accolade
As on the Archives roll.Again we take our pen in hand-
And wonder in dismay-
Why works which we esteem so high-
From others get a "Nay."Why does it seem that pathos grim
Does claim a brighter hour-
That words of love and pleasure
Which blossom like a flower.And why do tales of cruel deceit
Outweigh the pleasant thought?
For when our hearts are light and gay-
It seems we write for naught.
by John R. Yaws