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.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 4:57 PM UTC
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.
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