Why do I write poetry,
It's a question I ask myself.
I'm a bit out dated,
A worn spine on the shelf.
I'm not writing for anyone,
Nor a book just anyone should read.
But why write?
I wonder
What is it to me?
I could write dreams,
Dabble
Try fantasy,
Or horror stories,
Survival, adventure,
Are natural to me.

But a person can't be defined by one piece, or another.
Perhaps that's what I enjoy
In verses
These verses in ink..
The languages and their structures
Are shattered,
Every rule by the wayside
And something new
Steps forward.
Something real,
Unique as a new day,
Something
Only you
Could ever  
Say.

To hell with the rules