For The Sake Of Poem

I love my little dictionary
it's cute and compact enough
to carry in a pocket book (how ironic)

But the real magic
begins to unleash itself
when flipped to the inside,
this is where words spill over me
in an overwhelming
yet mystical, poetic lore

Not a single term (even love)
gets left undefined
nor does pronunciation
speak in faulty tongue
and punctuation
well, he's got his own distinct mark

I study those 5"x 5" pages
of boundless vocabulary
like clock work, every am
but mind
feels sorely inadequate
for she's still half empty
yet it seems I'm feeding her
my perpetual willingness
almost all the time