On The Birth of Poet

He stares down at the empty white spaces
Bordered with light blue lines
Armed with the weapon of his choice
Black gel pen held in his writing hand,
Ready to strike.
He contemplates the laws of his kind.
The laws of rhyme, metre, and verse,
But he is a wild sort,
Ready to blatantly disregard such edicts,
The mandates set down by his forebears
Centuries before.
His hand darts forward, striking the blank page
Packing the barren arena
With tightly curved letters and words
Each meticulously placed in its designated abode
Sometimes exploring outside the boundaries
Into the unexplored vastness of
Of the writer's vacant white egotism,
And then his hunger is sated
For a few sweet jerks of the clock's hands
As he stares at the result of his labour
The phrases melt into cadence and he smiles
He smiles at the adulations he will receive
His transformation into utter arrogance is complete.
He is now a translator of emotion and truth
A writer for all the people to hold high
Revered by the teachers, detested by students
He is now a poet.

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