A Poem

I would like to write poetry
A gift I often seek
One that I do not own
But your patience I do beseech

For here in short rhyming prose
These thoughts, these words
Though worn with use
I dare to compose

Despite all the repetition
Despite originality's death
I will forget my inhibitions
And here my words I will set

For who does not write?
For who does not express?
Too soon we forget we're talking
Too soon we start to ignore

Each thing has its story
The rock, the wall, the toe
But no voice to tell it
They depend on us, so...

The rock lives in the ground
Sees everything from below
It's hardly waiting to be found
No hurry, it has no where to go

The wall is one of many
Boxing a house tightly in
A boy lives here named Lenny
Truth be told, he's quite thin

Mr. Toe lives on a foot
He's from a family of five
His favorite ground is soot
For it makes him feel more alive

See how their stories come?
See how easily they're sung?
Without us how would they speak?
Without us, there'd be not a peep

So my dear friends, be it known
That our voice is everything's voice
Inanimate or animate without tone
It merely is a matter of choice
And an imagination well grown.

Taa taa