Words and the page,
wind and the waves.
Words move my hand,
a hand invisible moves
the waves. Words reduce
my store of feelings,
the tides reclaim the shore.
For the poet, ebb and flow
are his world. Inspiration is
there, then gone. Happiness
then depression. Kindness
then selfishness. The great
sin, self gratification.
When you write for you,
inspiration is wasted.
You are just a pass thru,
an instrument of communication.
All poetry is meant for someone else.
Poetry is like the wind
Over the water, it should disrupt
the tranquility while soothing the soul.