As Poets

It's an impossible task

To describe what we feel.

No matter how hard we try

We always tend to occupy

The same space, the same deal.

Going towards falling masks

Running scared of what's real.

Forcing strange things to pass by

Leaning as reaching for the sky

Hunger and craving for no meal.

Mixing beauty and grotesque

Uncarefully breaking a seal.

All themes and subjects we pry

Running inspiration so dry

Eventually paying the bill.

We don't take impossible for granted

Nor give up upon such a hard test.

Does't matter if written or chanted

Wordplaying is what we do best.

Then, there's a tiny small secret

That poets abuse as a plot:

Though words are humanly limited,

Imagination clearly is not!

;)