The Little Poet

The little man inside my skull who makes me write some rather dull and even boring diatribes has just this morning sent some vibes that as of yesterday he would write real poems as he should. He had a pretty dumb excuse, I think it could be called a ruse. He needed practice, so he said and living there inside my head he didn't get to travel much, for inspiration, thoughts and such. Though now, he's found, through clever means how to partake in life's own scenes. He's noticed that the inner ear which after all is there to hear receives the fragments of a word, and out he flies with it, a bird! The reason that he's never known (thus roundabout he's never flown) is simply that he never thought that small, creative creatures ought to value input of the masses, which does include small talent classes. Now that he's seen the poet's light he recognises all the bright and thoughtful, smart, exquisite souls who write not for some lofty goals but for the joy that it instills, and -well - to flaunt poetic skills. The little man is so much calmer now that he's read the works of Palmer. Observed the little man (who's sane) : 'Much confidence can make you vain.'