~Blue Bird~

Looking out the window,
you see the rain pour from the clouds and a bird gliding through the drenched sky.

You feel remorse for yourself that even through the storm,
that bird continues to fly.

You sit there and think,
if only you had the strength of that bird.

But sweetie, you do.
You just choose not to get wet.

                                                           K.H.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

You see him,
then the butterflies start to show up.

You talk to him,
then the love starts to grow.

You wonder if what you're feeling is okay.

You stay awake thinking of this man who made you feel alive with just a conversation.

You've been alone for far too long,
so you took a chance.

Little did you know,
that chance would haunt you everyday/night when you wake up and lye your head to sleep.

Little did you know,
you'd discover the true feeling and sentiments of heartache.

                                                              K­.H.