why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

Whatever happened to the moments
we lived for
the moments we lived from
electrifying lives
currents of passion
high voltage that knew no resistance

what do I have to do?
to feel the surge
to feel the spark
to feel alive again?

Is it in the tomes?
Is it in the songs?
Do the muses hold it in the walls?
Is it inside of me?

Searching for the switch
to send me back to passion
To make me feel charged again
to make me feel in charge again

~


Soft flurries of affection
find my eyes lost in the prism
of the beauty that engulfs my world

For to inhale is to fall into
the scent of sweet essence riding
the breeze exhaling from your skin

As words pour on the page,
my fingers dance in rhythmic patterns
now wrapped warmly about my thoughts

I have wondered, quietly to myself
where is it they are born,
how do they flow so easily

from a mind that constantly spins
in whirls of dream-like visions
kaleidoscopic views and frantic desires,

where each vowel, noun, adjective or verb
in feathered shapes of ink, somehow
scribble silhouettes of my love for you

It is now that I notice,
sitting in the frail sunshine of the dawn
whispering on salmon clouds, you are awake

that my hands are empty, my fingers still
for it seems as I write of you, my endless everything,
it is my heart that holds my pen

Would you believe I feel
If I haven't sensed anything for years?
Would you believe I admire
If I have been cold my whole life?
Would you believe I dream
If I only dream about you?
Would you believe I love
If it's only with you?

That's why I love to write
I can make all things possible
Even us.