My Dear Child

I had a child look at me once and say
Sir, how is it ever I can write a happy poem
One that flows gently from my heart
With words that justify the things I can never explain
How do I tell my only parent I love her
And how can I explain why I didn't answer the phone
The night my Father died and the last time it rang

He looked at me with a troubled face
A burdened soul entwined between lost and hopeless
It was that night it happened
And I looked at him to say:

My Dear child, words are never what created the poet
For if a rhyme defined perfect
Then ten thousands tears would have defined the river
And It too would have washed away
No one would have ever came to know it.

A flow is a gentle stream flowing from the heart
Something only Dear Poets would know or know where to start
There are words created by man
But there are also feelings created by a poet
Like a canoe that ables drift down a mountain stream
There are different paths it shall take
But in the end
It is to you what that river will mean

He looked at me again in question
But this time I interrupted him and seen it as perfect
I turned away from the mirror and walked away
Mumbling to myself;
My Dear child, you are not worthless...