My Star to be (You are the Tree)

Depressed, lost romance and career,
wanton woes infecting mind,
haunted by fear of finances
and those second chances spent.

I took refuge in poetry
in bunker walls of verse,
soon learned to turn my pain to words
to use for soothing wounds.

Some spurred my pen to write
for sense of worth and reason,
a few well-seasoned poets
felt my work was best unseen.

They penned of great deepness
using words that seemed obscure,
I guess these views impress
by inferring intellect.

I could never disrespect
but would reject their view of me,
for I too have suffered strife
and reflect upon life deeply.

Do I not feel love truly
nor pine and grieve each death?
I believe if duly gauged
we'd find we're quite alike.

I won't hide these farmer's words
that seem rough and plain as dirt
they scream loudly to be heard,
born from feelings same as yours.

You serve your poems up like a dish
of savored treats all wish to taste
they gain respect and much acclaim
that some now favor as the best.

Your poetry becomes you
like some magic Christmas tree,
a pine that offers one a gift
wrapped up nicely with a pen.

While you glow I'm in the dark
with naught but simple poems,
though standing tall, you'll soon see
me crown you with a star.