Born to Write Poetry, Forced to Write Emails

In realms where words dance free, unconfined,

Where verses soar with dreams entwined,

I am born, a bard of the soul's delight,

In the realm of ink, where thoughts take flight.

With quill in hand and heart unbound,

I weave tales of wonder, in whispers profound.

Each syllable a note, in the symphony of art,

Each stanza a journey, to a poet's heart.

But alas, in the world's relentless race,

Where time dictates every pace,

I am summoned from my poet's lair,

To tread the path of mundane affair.

For in the land of suits and ties,

Where deadlines loom and chaos lies,

My pen is wielded not for verse's grace,

But for emails, memos, in this bustling space.

Yet still, beneath the corporate glare,

My spirit sings, though trapped in there,

For even in the briefest lines I scribe,

A spark of poetry, refuses to hide.

So though my days be filled with prose,

And emails through the ether flows,

In every word, a poet's soul I find,

Born to write poetry, in any bind.

For the heart of a poet beats true and strong,

In the midst of deadlines, it sings its song,

And though the world may seek to impede,

The poet within will forever be freed.