Isaac Was a Poet

Isaac was a poet, ever since the tender age of five

He wrote poems of heroes and villains, and worlds

Of magic and bravery, filled with adventure

His mother said to him one day,

" You write with a passion, you speak from your

Heart, your work will carry you far"

Isaac was a poet, even into his teenage years

He wrote of angst and depression, of which he

Experienced each day, loosing himself in his own

World

His teachers and peers saw his work and said,

"You write with passion, you tell the truth,

Your work will carry you far"

Isaac was a poet, and of course he fell in love

He wrote of happiness and compassion, emotions

He felt only when he was with her

He read his poems to her, and what she said was,

"You write with emotion, that comes from your

Soul, this work will take you far"

Isaac was a poet, even as his wife lay dying in his

Arms

He wrote about his grief and sorrow, each word

Just as sad as the next,

She saw them laying on her bed once, and this is

What she said,

"You wrote for me as I laid, taking care of me with

Words. This attitude will take you far"

Isaac was a poet, when his work was published

In magazines and books

He wrote of the past and present, never looking

Forward

His editors took his work and said,

"The words that people buy today, they mean

Almost nothing at all. Keep writing this useless

Stuff, and you'll go very far"

Isaac was a poet, even when Life had knocked him

Down

He wrote his poems in solitude, hoping for attention

But nobody cared for Isaac anymore, everyone had

Seen his poems

So Isaac decided to write one more poem, and this

Is how it went:

"In the past I have written, poems as different as

each one of you. I've wrote of love and sorrow, of

Happiness and life. I've lived, I've lost, I've grown

Old, and I've given you my soul. People ask why I

Never wrote in rhyme, and I tell them that it takes

Up too much time in which my mind can come up

With more stories. I write this poem in hopes, that

You all will enjoy it as you did before. This poem is

Like my breath, this will be the last. So I bid you

Adieu, as I rejoin those I miss."

Isaac was a poet, right to the bitter end

As he loaded a single bullet, and prepared to meet

The end, he said to himself,

"Maybe I should have added one more stanza..."