A Year in Poetry

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I write a poem a day, every day, some
Are good, and some are true, others are crude.
A year in poetry before you, from
My heart, my line, my verse, my ideas rude,
Forged in the fires of Crucibles true.
I hope upon one of my verse you stay
And muse a lifetime, and mine be your muse
That pass the wary days away, away.

I write a poem for you, yes you, not one
But many for one each to chew and sleuth.
A poem for one, a poem for all, the stone
I craft, my texture all like soundwaves' screw
They get loud, they get soft, they whisper nude
Which was warped by the world's wicked way
But I would, thus, die for the bull I shoot
That pass the wary days away, away.

Muse over my verse, and find aught what's shown
If it's nothing, or if it's some Thought's food?
Maybe I, a madman who speaks what's known,
Speaks a truth for all or truth for few,
So use the compendium for what's lude 
Or rather research my sayings oh so, so strange
All my metaphors hidden in plain view
That pass the wary days away, away.

Read my words, and read my truths
Read what I have had to say---
Hidden in my verse is proof
That pass the wary days away, away.