My poetry is young and maybe crude,
Yet, it was born and begаn walking.
Happy or sad, but never rude,
it hugged me, then it started talking.

It smells of fresh and fragrant coffee
from many mornings filled with drive
and painted pale but somehow cocky,
it woke me up and made me feel alive.

My poetry's a penetrating subtle song,
caressing very gently - heart and soul,
redolent with a perfume slightly strong,
it’s served with thought and in a bowl.

Sometimes it's daring and audacious
spontaneous, unburdened, free,
shining like pearl, it’s rare and precious,      
in spite of how acutely timid, it might be.

It’s not fame worthy, pretty or refined.
You can't compare it to a finely crafted vase,
not either to the best food you can find,
but to a fresh bite at a loved and quiet place.