It’s about the Poet,
It’s about his Rhythm
It’s about his Rhyme,
It’s about him forgetting time.

It’s about him becoming lost,
In the stanzas and words,
In the defining moments, that could make him want to fly like a bird.

It’s about his rhyming, his timing,
Showing that he’s not lying,
His Imagery and Personification,
The way he could potentially inspire a nation.

It’s about his Alliterations,
His Allusions,
His Characterizations.

It’s about his use of Connotation,
It’s about his Repetition of words
To give it that feel,
That mood, that tone,
Things that make a great work never condoned.

It’s about that one piece,
That can make or break him,
That could lift him up out of the crowd,
Or it could cast him down with those that aren’t proud,

Throwing him further and further down past fortune and fame,
And making him feel like a worthless stain,
On a shirt that is never worn nor seen
Suddenly he becomes a phene,
Angry because of his shattered dream.

All because of that one seemingly unimportant misconception,
That made his work seem too depressing,
It changed the mood and made it bad,
All because of the one missed syllable he should have had.


But then he is good and chooses the correct words,
That make his work fly like a plane,
And put out all his fiery shame.

It lifts him up like the reincarnation of Simba,
Changes the views of those sinnas,
That cast him down about the ground,
And made him taste the dirt he found.

It’s about the poet,
With his word-al weapons,
Each like an arrow in a quiver of knowledge ready to be fired,
When really his dreams are unreachably high on a spire.