You like to pretend there's no poetry in you
while you are
...drifting, drifting, drifting...
as it were.
Creative forces weave their way through your soft hair,
out through your voicebox,
down through your hands.
Doubt swims about
in your freshly trodden mind,
however.
But a voice I do hear
in soothing baritone swells.
Strong hands that do heal
straight from a good heart alone.
Your courage speaks louder than both, I feel,
and the poetry exists-
in the fern colored Seven Seas that are your eyes.
Glistens like a sharp needle
which pierces sharply through my own delicate skin.