Not every poet is a Wordsworth,Keats or Plath ,
a Dickinson perhaps,
Poetic creativity,
an impropriety of wild mind,
and sharpened wit.
It's a description of words,
spilled from contorted buckets.

Some words tall,
they are as giraffes,
Marked with blotchy patches.
Others small, as wistful shrews.
That's the curse of open verse.
Words for the moment, captured in ink,
makes them stop and maybe think.
Sharp as a knife blades
often spoken,
dark as night.
Makes her nothing less of a poet.
An influence all of her own.

Some's words are vacant nothingness.
The lady's just a snooty ****,
she strikes a fearsome pen.
She strikes a light as she ignites,
passion in the hearts of men.
(C) LIVVI