People often think
By The Poetry that I write
That I live in a dark place
Devoid of warmth or light
Though there is no basis in reality or fact
I think I'm just stepping in or out
Depending on your own point of View
Breathing in any dank air to empathize with the doubt
So rarely do I reflect so Direct
As to aim  at the poet
Who I hang around
Like a torn and tattered raincoat
Maybe not the most beautiful
But it's the best one I've ever found
For it tells my story like a painting or a book

Allowing me to recognize those eyes
That can't hide their first opinion
That feeds my poets poetic fires- so they get the job -- I do the work
Where I only seek to raise my own standards
Not to bring anyone else down to size
If the elevation lifts my spirit
While their own opinion is a tether
Not allowing them to rise

So if the shadow of a shadow in Twilight
Is ever visited by a bright star of pure honesty
Then the poet gleams until it seems
Like I become pristine
So bright  becomes the poets light
The holes still do exist in all reality
They're just harder for some to see

By no means does that deny
Any imperfections or my own personal flaws
It's the poet in me that gets the Inspirations
From Bright Lights - Shadow Sprites Coming to the poets cause
That wander in every now and then
Bringing fresh air - blowing away that which is stale
So lovely one  I want you to know - you're fresh air and a gentle breeze
Who has moved me in immeasurable ways - by putting life back
Into my once sagging sails