He thought it,
Dare he say it?
Na, it's only gonna come out wrong.
Why in no language can his thoughts become song?
With pen and pad his ideas are given new name.
But this whole poetry things' got him straining his brain..
So much to say and no way to say it.
He's told it's a game, but for those who can play it.
He looks in and dives deep in search of some sort of inspiration.
Working hard to keep his words from sounding like those of despiration.
So he leans back and listens to fellow young poets rhyme,
Dropping lyrical dime, after dime, after dime.
Thinking, How am I supposed to follow that?
He wishes he could draw that confidence from their hats.
The hats that crown their oh so talented heads
Wondering when his talents might spread.
