What is your poetry, my friend?
Is it the cool spring day that bounces
off your clothes after a long winter mourning;
the spine-chilling defrosting session
you have when the sun finally rises
and the forward look to the light of a new day.
Or is it the morning silence of a library,
hot teas, and warm crumpets, that carries
your imagination far far away
after forgetting the chaos of yesterday.
Your poetry is your happy place,
your depressed face, your angry taste,
and an exhausted out space...
Your race to the moon and back
before mother tucks you in
and turns off the lights.
It's the bad blues news
and the good old days' anthem
that hums on long to the Sunday tunes
without a care in the world.

What is our poetry, my friend?
Is it a couple of pals laying waste
to the grass below our restless bodies
as we gaze up into the galaxy
and pronounce what is your and mine;
the grass clumping together in our hands
and spilling all over each other's hair.
Or is it the strum of your guitar
and the beat of my hands clashing
against each other to make a sweat
Yet miserable lullaby for our hearts
to pour our into the beach we set camp at.
The waves matching our irregular beat
with its own casual style
that loves to ride up onto our toes mid-chorus.
Our Poetry is what we make of it.
love letters dabbled back and forth
across the classroom get caught
just to share the love we have
with everybody else who doesn't have.
The glittering looks we give
when everyone bursts out laughing
because we know they know
they will never come close to us;
not even second place.
The tear drop memories of what was
and what coulda woulda shoulda been
but now isn't there for us to even cry on;
just cold shoulders and salty whispers
about the past, that should never have been
because it makes up too much pain for the present.