| Stereotypes I sit and think to those who know, what is a poet? what makes him grow? for all I have is what the world has to show a crowded cafe with a man up on stage, reciting words as a medieval page, when the flow of words stops crisp in the air, the snapping of fingers rhythmically stomps through the silence so fair, But when I stop telling you what I've got to tell don't snap your fingers as if under some spell, because that is not what I want to become, I want you to feel the words that come, I want you to take it inside and dwell with it there until you can understand what was said with such care, and not to shift your view to your hand and let the worlds fall dead on the land For to do that would mean that my job is not done, for what am I here to do for you? as as my question before said too what is a poet? what makes him grow? it is the thought that he'll always know that he touched all your lives in some little way and left the stage happy because YOU let him grow. |