Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

I saw you today,
I tried to say "hello",
but my lips were a dam,
And the words wouldn't flow,
My heart wanted to speak,
But my brain wanted to go,
And so I left,
on its command,

Here I sit outside,
On this violent summer day,
The streets the seem to whisper,
All the stories they could say,
Above me a bee,
It could be from here,
Or rather far away,
But how rare and beautiful a thing it is to see,
So I sit here,
All day.

You know,
In all my travels across this land,
I've wondered who deals the hand,
The cards no one wants to play,
But they continue anyway,