Sometimes I sit at my desk and think that MY poetry writes me. That it bubbles up like rising dirigibles tweaking my impulses to write.
Verses become effervesce tickles to launch heartbeats. Canopies of breath filled with words get syphoned into heart. Bristol waves of passions gracefully float traveling from heart to hand with pen. Dancing Pen to crystal page. Golden text to readers eyes and than perhaps a readers hand who graciously gifts me with sun and smile.