He lives with a poet in his head

He lives with a poet in his head.
He didn’t hear one word you said,
he plays to an audience of a different kind
his words, thoughtful and full blown
layer one over another, like seeds being sown.
They fall into phrases that capture them all
as he scrambles to pen them in his harried scrawl.
 
He saunters around
his feet not quite on the ground.
I see him mostly at night, all around the town
going who knows where,
preoccupied with an eerie stare.
He walks like a man possessed
his thoughts kept guarded, close to his chest.
 
The witching hours, those few everyday
when he just needs to break away,
find him wandering about to sort things out
and deal with the clutter in his head.
Not a word to anyone has he said;
quietly snuffed out like a flame,
he disappears back whence he came
 
He lives with a poet in his head.
He sees things through a different lens
everything spins around
his thoughts, one must admit, quite profound.
It often keeps him up at night,
the fear he won’t get it just right,
that something might get away
an errant word, a brilliant lyric
verses that simply won’t obey.
He has a story to tell, words woven with magic,
sprinkled with wisdom, told in good time.
And though he likes to, his words, they need not rhyme.
 
He’s been gifted with a poet’s voice
it’s a burden of his choice,
Tens of thousands of words put down on paper
though some days he still feels like an impersonator.
How ridiculously absurd
when he can’t find the words.
Roses are red, violets are blue…
these aren’t words that’ll make a poet out of you.
Words that capture his thought and let the world in on it,
that grab listeners and to another place transports.
The voice in his head whispers, ‘you think you’re a great poet
but alas my friend, I think you’re not!’
 
He mixed his words today
but should have voided them, those that got away.
Truthful, foolish words that should never have found the air.
He should have paused a moment, perhaps offered a prayer.
Words carry tremendous weight
dispensed without wisdom, can unleash a cruel fate.
 
The poet is rendered idle.
There are no words.
How absurd, how absurd.