Storms rage,
and I cannot look away;
I am not scared.
Let the trees fall around me
and the air crackle with static.
The wind can wist me away
while I stare into the sky’s oblivion
searching for the elusive bolt.
The world can flash around my eyes,
leave me half-second blind,
and I will not hesitate
to step out into the open.
Take me while you can
dastardly weather
I am yours
for now.

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?

you are
flying dream
old growth tree
festooned in gold leaf
and rare gems
your rainforests noises
mirror my busy city mind
rising and ebbing
to shapes cosmic
all we hold
is the love
known amorphous

Sadly, I don't mind.