I would give myself away
as I so often do.

crack a smile
shed a tear
laugh abrubtly
or sit silent

Always with my heart on my sleeve,
where I have made a spot for it.

I would give myself away.
everytime.
if the person I am yeilding to is you.

And I will not hide anymore.
So that maybe
Maybe
Maybe we will teach each other
the serenity
In loving someone who let's you keep your heart on your sleeve
So they might see it.

So loving,
just loving
might come with less questions

I cannot give you serenity,
but if it meant you might find it
for yourself
I would give myself away.

For you,
I would give myself away.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?