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!