He wove words,
Mystically intertwined verbs and consonants,
Listened to his muse and tried his best not to blow it,
And for that, they called him a poet.

Everyday he worked,
Twisting and turning, twisting and turning,
Using up spool after spool of vowels on his loom,
And for that, they called him a prophet of doom.

They mocked him,
Called his passion unreal, his words, unoriginal,
Yet weave he did, even when they called his work putrid,
And for that, they called him stupid.

He cut his fingers,
Bruised and blistered yet still he worked,
Through writers block and haters he pulled his weight,
And for that, they called him great.

He presented his work,
A coat of many colours, a masterpiece of sorts,
Showed it off to friends and even people who didn’t know him,
And then, they called it a poem.

He sat down,
Content with his work he glanced at the empty loom,
It looked lonely, (some may even say absurd)
And so, he wove words.

© michael onsando | blog | twitter |

Today, March 21st 2011 is World Poetry Day and it was declared by UNESCO in 1999. The purpose of the day is to promote the reading, writing, publishing and teaching of poetry throughout the world
Happy World Poetry Day everyone!!