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.