all humans think they are the ******* ****
like we think elevated thoughts that trip across moonbeams
drift on clouds laced with estrogen and ******* sunshine
like we steer their course
when in reality
our elevation has nothing to do with the brevity of our infantile thought processes
that we believe are unique and something for others to wonder at
it's been ******* done before
someone already wrote a better poem about it, too.

don't stand on my shoulders and point out all the **** i can't see from down here
things unseen still exist
i'm not a tourist
in a poetic world you created
full of bleeding wrists and antidepressants
******* tell it how it is
don't elaborate
or don't
say anything
at  
all

I enjoy, the subtle shades, connotation of each word,
probe, how dexterously they are put together in an order
like jewels in an ornament for generations to wear.
The way the construct speaks to the brooding solitude
that moves in and out of my soul,as the reading proceeds.

I smell a fragrance, like the scent of fresh ripe fruit,
eager to taste it, sink my teeth deep, draw juice,
now find a memory awaiting to resonate with the
cadence of my heart.
                                                 I am such an animal
that can smell poetry's worth from a distance,
a goldsmith who could  predict it's weight in gold
my avarice for a poetic diet, never dies, only swells.

Every poem of my kind, to me does something
my lover does, decidedly every imagery, carry forward
a memory, like wind a cloud, reaches a space beyond
touches eternity with it's magic wand,  a flash results
Even if the poet leaves me mid way, I'd still see the light.

I've an enticing excuse to imagine what I want to see
a poem doesn't produce anything,but what it does to mind,
is pure magic,I am in that flow,far from the illusory reality.