As colorful as a rose

I’m just a form of prose

I’m just words on a page

To try to explain the authors rage

Or possibly their sorrow

Or their bright hopes for tomorrow

There’s no true meaning to me, the poem

As I’m not the one who wrote ‘em

What am I? I ponder?

But each word makes me grow fonder

I don’t know what I am

Written by sir or ma’am

I know I’m alive

I’m just a deep thought dive

I’m more than just words on a page

Or a way to explain rage

Pain or sorrow

Or a hope for a better tomorrow

I’m as colorful as a rose

I’m an excellent form of prose

What am I? A poem of course!