There’s a place inside were poems are born.
It’s just like a room in the head.
It’s full of so many words
And things that people have said,
Or a line of graffiti seen somewhere,
Or a thing that’s simply been read.
–
Some words may dishearten,
Others enthuse.
Try not to clutter,
Simply pick and choose.
Favourites are fine,
But don’t overuse.
There’s no fondness for words that rush at you,
Or wake at an early hour,
Or those that are not in common use,
Or leave a taste that is sour,
Or those that a reader has to look up,
Or the archaic that no longer have power.
–
There’s no liking for words that are hung with icicles,
Or those that burst into flame,
Or those full of pretentiousness,
Either through glamour or fame,
Or words that promise too much,
Or dictate the name of the game.
–
The best loved words
Glide in on a cloud.
They hoot like an owl
But never too loud.
They smell of coffee;
All with humour allowed.
–
Inside this room, is where precious things live.
Outside… can there be anything above
Or more important that life can give
Than the value of poetry, music and love?