Chaucer or a Poe

Their laughing right at me,
and doing it today.
Why are you writing poetry,
are you some sort of gay.

I often get this reaction,
from so many that I meet.
Do they not get the feeling,
to write upon a sheet.

You never know for certain,
what will inspire you.
Sometimes it’s who you are,
then sometimes, what you do.

Some days you cannot tell,
you must follow what you’re feeling.
Whether it’s writing on a paper,
or painting on church ceilings.

Find those things you’ve buried,
deep down in your heart.
Then bring them to the surface,
and make a brand new start.

For so many years I thought,
that I was really dead.
It was just that my ideas,
were dying in my head.

I sit down with  pen and paper,
soon after I start to write.
Words come flowing out of me,
Sometimes lasting through the night.

I may not be a Longfellow,
a  Chaucer or Poe.
Or is that just what they had  said,
when did they finally know.

Today the things I’ve hidden,
for so many years.
I have chosen to write down,
without a single fear.

So many people tell me,
that my writings are all wrong.
But they make me happy,
my poems, stories and songs.

It’s all about what’s in my head,
the things I believe.
If you  do not like them,
just set them down and leave.

As long as I’m writing this,
there is something  you should know.
A friend told me to jot it down,
she got me to go.

She taught me I could feel,
I am living once again.
If she had not said those things,
I’d never written this my friend.