I maybe not a poet.
I maybe not a good writer.
My words and grammar
maybe out of place ,
on a crooked space,
sometimes.
Asking my self at sometimes,
to keep things through, or not!
Yet, some pieces of my songs I wrote.
It gives me wings to fly.
To keep yearning, and
to ears for words.
As it becomes spatial place
of reality
and as a resting place of mind.
Those poems
that penned down,
under the sun,
moon
and stars.
Some turns to reality
and some awaits
its time.
To wander at sometimes,
when somethings comes around inside.
And the soul to wonder,
for its world inside.
So, maybe little,
but enough!
So, maybe not good,
but useful!
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...!
MAYBE....