the poet

That’s him. On the desk. Making himself at ease
on that wooden chair. Sometimes he would roam
around and finds his place of comfort. Then
he’ll try to weave simple scribbles into meanings
that convey thoughts, emotions, and experiences.
Struggling –
and forcing all the sweats and blood do the work
of creating imaginations. He smirks,
cries, laughs, smiles, frowns. He thinks about
or confuses himself with several feelings and
thoughts. About how the fish flies in the sea
without drowning, the real highest mountains still
unconquered by the toughest, on the continuous burning
of the sun after being buried in the horizon. Even the joys
and harshest of personal experiences –
how he loves to look at his beloved and wish
she’ll always be protected; certainty of a happy-ever-after
ending though it’s just a dream, and before long
the leaving. And the hope of being together again.
On being alone; companies of friends and the shared
moments. These – . Single words concocted with another,
and another. Soon a masterpiece is built. Oftentimes
only he can understand. But then, it will not stop
there. Words cannot suffice, he knows. And so he keeps
forming the world as he knew it. That’s him. Still writing.