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....