The Poet

They call me a poet and whisper in hush,
I talk much too little and think way too much,
my friends are all crazy,
like Byron and Yeats,
I sit home on Fridays and don't go on dates.
I hate society or so I am told,
withdrawn and broken,
or maybe too bold.
It's not called true art,
nor bought for your wall,
I look for life's meaning,
and hear when it calls.
I see the moonlight,
and write by the stars,
say what you will,
but I am life's bard.

©2010∞Copperhead