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A Poet Whose Time Has Come

I wonder, could I make it big.  A man, fulfilled, his dream.
I think the time is now, this poet, blow a little steam.
Really!  What’s the worst thing that could happen if I try.
It ain’t like I’ll puff up, grow warts.  Get sick, lay down and die.

I have to do this wisely.  With aggression, full attack it.
Stay in focus!  Be persistent!  Take my deck, restack it.
Believe with all my heart and soul, I surely will succeed.
That there’s a reason for my words.  Along with that, a need.

I have the inspiration.  I’ve the tools and the desire.
God gave, to me, a mission, and he set my heart on fire.
My pen in hand, at total peace, I take a thought or two.
I write about the things I’ve done.  The things I plan to do.

Thoughts that get me thinking, as my heart beats with my brain.
Romance!  Inspiration!  Tributes!  Maybe just complain.
I’ve been around.  I know the ropes.  Don’t claim to be the smartest.
A man who has an urge to write.  Another starving artist.

Yet possibly.  Just possibly, as many people’ve stated.
My judgment of my poet skills are truly under-rated.
Maybe, maybe, maybe, God has gifted me some way.
He helps me as I rhyme my words.  He gives me much to say.

My time, I feel’s arriving.  It is time I forge ahead.
And start expressing all these poems, that run throughout my head.
Throw enough potatoes, at the wall, soon some will stick.
Eventually those taters, on the wall, start getting thick.

One step starts the mile and one word does start the poem.
What makes my poems unique is how they hit, so hard, at home.
My poems all tell a story.  They contain much explanation.
My writing has much content.  Moves with good acceleration.

It’s easy to relate to and it seems that all who hear it,
Like it!  Rave it!  Compliment it!  Now which way to steer it.
I’ve added all the facts and I’ve arrived at just one sum.
That I could be a poet.  One whose time has finally come.