My Pocket

There’s a poet in my pocket
I think she’s rather quaint,
She smiles like an angel
And makes me feel a saint.

She’s lending me her best lines
Thoughts deeper than I’ve known,
Compelling me to write them
Until I’ve composed a poem.

She’s not bothered about a credit
It really would be a bind,
To have to wait to be acknowledged
Maybe getting left behind.

For she lives just to be creative
Just as much as I live to breath,
That the world will experience
As much as it can receive.

Maybe there’s a poet in your pocket
A writer or artist too,
A musician, perhaps a sculptor
Waiting to inspire you?

One thought on “My Pocket

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