Poet, a tortured soul

World-weary, war-torn, weather-beaten
A poet is but a beleaguered soul,
A hopeless wanderer, a rootless wayfarer
Misunderstood often
misinterpreted and ridiculed,
Scorned by his lady luck
Spurned by his muse,
Wizard of imagination
reigning over a fantasy land,
He’s of a ragged spirit
striving to shape an ideal world,
A Spartan without a spear
A warrior without a weapon
Yet equipped to inflict a fatal wound,
Never home when opportunity comes a-knocking,
No stranger to passion
yet true love eludes him—
Perennially lovelorn
Forever forlorn!

That’s all there’s in store for you
if you decide to be a poet.