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