I received a query that grasped my attention A certain query that induced me to ponder To recall the yesterdays and the yesternights Why don’t you write as much, someone wonders
The curious fellow deems my works lovely And went another mile to call me, the poet, just the same Similarly, I pause to ask myself Are lethargic hands and an uninspired heart to blame?
I say no and I disprove this idea Never have I ceased to write all this time I’ve adapted various methods and materials I’ve learned that words and verses are not prime
Now, I deliver metaphors directly from my fingertips My every touch is a verse, every breath is a poetic line I carve words on wood, on the fleeting breeze, on warm skin My works are now cherished moments I entwine
Threads out of smiles and laughter, I weave into blankets The comfort i turn to in days with somber frigid weather My lingering gazes are poems unconventionally spoken To write about desire is abortive, to feel the burn is better
A moment with another is an extemporaneous collaboration My friends and lover are writers in their own right Whether amateur or sophisticated, they create poetry I conceal pens and papers lest they flee in fright
So you see, I have never stopped composing I've been writing in ways the eyes might not see I’m a breathing vessel of born and unborn literary creations A writer with a penchant for a form called free