Reluctant, cautious, but driven all the same. Rejection and intolerance, wary of the pain. From early days the poems did play but hidden they would stay. The words jumble, until they tumble, onto paper through his pen.
Cautious steps taken, by foot and in his mind. Spirit liberated and celebrated, unfolding slowly, for it’s time. By arm he’s guided, his Muse there, always by his side. Gently first then firmly, the lessons he did abide. The words jumble, until they tumble, onto paper through his pen.
Realized now the words are his and a light shown on his soul. They do so liberate and motivate these letters on each scroll. Free at last for all to see, and fearful not at all. The words jumble, until they tumble, onto paper through his pen.
The Poet feared judgement, by a world, on things they’d never understand. Fear nothing whispered the Muse except that which goes unpenned. The words jumble, until they tumble, onto the paper through my pen.