Today a poem shall be written.
Tools and vessels shall be gathered.
Pouring threads of thought like sweet honey into a child's mouth.
Pencils will be sharpened and corners dusted,
the mind of the free thinker shall reveal a secret door, but the key your willingness holds;
for the mind is indeed a scary place.

Brave is what the poet is. To let his space be invaded.
Unsure, if the beauty that lies inside will be appreciated
or shall the intruder leave his stench behind.
Will the beauty be spectated a beast, and left impure and riven?
Unsure is the poet.

But nevertheless, he frictions with paper, pencil so loud, and honey is made.
He stands upon the desk, to see the world from a different angle.
"If only I were so tall" thought the poet.

Trains will be caught, and trains will be dropped but the journey is
incomplete without windows. Travelling is such essence to poetry.
Phrases and verses are cooked and left to boil, until the poet is in the
vicinity of a pad. While pages be filled, he simmers his ideas and pays
in kind to the therapist that he has become.

It is true, poets don’t make any money. They are simply the servants of
the voiceless hidden reality. The rushes of blood to the head is what
makes us poets itch. Our mind is screaming but god hasn't gifted us a voice.
Selfish and biased is he; to only give us the alphabet. But with less, we make more.

We tell the world, the heavens and the gods, that I am man and not amoeba
and so yes, poems shall be written.
It will invade your lives and it shall leave a stench behind, impure and riven.
Poems like the mirror, never lie.
Honey is sweet and truth is bitter.But honey is truth.
Now, the beehive is full.