Poetry
Is not your most common sight
But the most unusual delight

Some poetry
Comes and goes
In neat little rows

Others yet
Scramble it's
Words

Some poems
Aren't what they seem
Others say exactly what they mean

Some poets
Are archaeologists
Digging for the remnant of a long lost being

Some poets
Are photographers
Taking in what is seen

Not all poems
Though
Have rhythm
And flow

But all poems
Are in their boats
Sent here by their authors
To run the ships
And tend to the goats
And be what they be
And do what they do
Poetry is whatever it is to you

All I see
All I see
Everything in front of me
Is a river

Flowing

All I see
All I see
Everything in front of me
Is a flower

Unfolding

All I see
All I see
Everything in front of me
Is a spiral

Unwinding

Im losing track of time again.

Lost in words, lost in my own head.

Theres so much to see, so much to do.

So little time.

And it slips from my grasp like how sand slips through the fingers of a clenched fist.

Theres no fighting the flow.
    So why try.

One step away
Two feet at bay
Three thoughts sway
Dangling
In my gaze.
A door certain,
The distance short,
Viscosity of air
Uncertain.

With all the steps
That have pulled me
Here,
And with all the
Inter-flows of life curving
My path
Left and right,
I have come,
Oh expectant One.

Thank you
To all.

My gaze loses focus
But remains on one.
There is no handle.
The door is yet to open.

Thank you
For recentering my gaze
Each and every time.

Whether it be the flow
Beneath my feet,
By my arms or,
In my mind and heart,
I...

Thank you

I, a wistful soul,
Have always been
On the verge of you.
Each push and pull
Of the flow of tide
Almost pushing me through
And yet
Here I am.

Thank you

My body lays
Sensing the flows
Eyes closed
Thinking about
The One who expects me
Beyond the door.

Cannot let the artist in me give up or stand down.
Lyrics keep me sane, making me okay with who I am.
Empowerment is granted to me like rocking a crown.
Without my practiced passion I would be ******
Like an unwanted hound found in a pount.

This art is what I want, it is what I chose.
Forever I am backed up with disposable flows.
Committed to the craft that I have to create.
I wanna see the progress and where all of this goes.
My style is taking a flight without a debate.
My literature mixture cancels those who oppose.

From the bottom, I started as nothing.
I put in the rhymes and took all the time.
I needed to go from nothing to something.
Surely I've climbed until I've inclined.
I had to age like production of wine.

Lacking realization, before I could know it,
I became what I desired to be.
Admiring how I morphed into a poet
that bloomed everytime that I showed it
Letting the stream take me,
This is a voyage in a boat as I row it.

Many have said why do I write so much.
I said
"I been listening to the flow of art of my pen".

The beautiful voices that have said to me to CONTINUE.
You can listen to my pen and
what it has said
to this piece of paper.

There are times where I can no longer see myself as a person.
Only what's coming out of my pen,
The ink I compare my self to.
But where has the emotions gone to?
If I'm only ink?

Emotions that I can never discribe.
Ink that crys on it own
For every movement my hand makes,
A different form of pain comes out.
Emotions that can only be  described through this pen.
Excietment, happiness, pain and sarrow,
all coming out at once.

There are nights where I close my self to the world, while under the night light preferring to open up with my Pen.

The last drops of ink has spilled
An said out loud

A Pen without ink is a Pen without it's owners soul.


                                                            By ERS

Imminent grainy current
constrained in flight
downward
onto
a pile of past moments

                                              /#dmperez