World-weary, war-torn, weather-beaten
A poet is but a beleaguered soul,
A hopeless wanderer, a rootless wayfarer
Misunderstood often
Misinterpreted, 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 aknocking,
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.

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