The Human Condition

“Come one, come all!”
I say with a flourish.
Welcome to my exhibit,
It’s newly refurbished.

You see,
It’s a portfolio of sorts.
My very own,
More subjective reports.

They’re words strung together,
Pieces made out of letters.
The plights of a writer,
A dreamer of something better.

Line made to rhyme,
It’s just so by design.

A culmination,
If you will,
Of the human condition.

A soul broken down,
And made whole again,
In poems.