A picture is worth a thousand words,
Yet to craft your speech is a revered skill,
I can go out now and capture birds,
In a picture atop some hill,
But to express what weighs down my mind,
It takes more than that, more thought than that,
As the cogs began to wind and grind,
You begin to empty your bottomless vat,
In a profession lasting through time,
Your linked to the old and to the great,
Professional rhythmists, masters of rhyme,
Poe, eccentric, Wolfe, ornate,
I face to choices because I matter,
To live and write despite the tatter,
Or to bottle it up, buckle, and get fatter,
But I simply refuse to accept the latter.