“I write for self.” The poet often claims.
The scop has not been born who holds this true.
“I care not that the world should know my names.”
These very words I’ve spoken as I grew.
“Allow me but the chance to bare my heart
and all shall be forgiven of mankind
when disregards he will my poesy’s light.”
Such contradiction must remain a part
of every poet base or skill refined
if ego is to be secure from spite.

The poet writes for those who will not read.
He frames the least for men who do not care.
Sweet numbered lines he crafts that men won’t heed.
So much the rhymster with his rhymes must dare.
He seeks a fragile truth and when ‘tis found,
the lyricist constructs withholding naught
and shares epiphany with candid pith.
Yet though he trusts the music shall astound,
but few will note despite the verse be fraught
with raw adventure and romantic myth.

But lo, the poet’s paramour,
the confidant who shan’t abjure.
The one who heeds, who heedless fails.
The lover who, regaled, regales.
A poet’s equal seeks the truth
and weeps with peer unequaled ruthe.