The day the poet died

A masterpiece I could not paint, I could not find the time
And with my writing poems, I could barely find a rhyme
I was never that musician, never wrote amazing songs
Nor was I optimistic finding hope within my wrongs

And following the concept of the structures I know best
I placed myself within them, though I barely passed the test
When I sank into the mystery of trying once again
I could barely feel the hatred as I lived without my pen

And so my ways of coping I was forced to make anew
I dreamt about the old days and sun tinted sky's of blue
Eventually I realized that my mistakes were wrong
But maybe I was coping now, maybe I was strong

So I left the world of poets, and the world I knew so well
Into the true reality, the world who's tales I tell
But what I did not realize, though I walked away so free
Was that leaving this was foolish, when it had a hold on me

Perhaps I never noticed when a mental block occurred
Where I could not find the time to rhyme, or punctuate my words
For every time I tried to write, I left the ink to try
And so it was that summers day, the poet in me died

But now my heart has been ignited and I recognize my woe
That coping wasn't easy when my feelings didn't flow
Onto a page, and from my heart, releasing mutilation
That writing was of course for me, a natural medication

So today as I sit here, though it is no special day
I cannot recall my actions, or what I did, but I can say
For today is my new landmark, and my imprint on this land
I hope it will accept me with those old familiar hands