A million poems seeking light, I haven't attempted to write,
Create waves and tides in my bloodstream day and night,
Demanding to make them heard blending words that inebriate,
Before I forget them and chase other butterflies in my garden.
I feel guilty about my choice of words to weave, later sometimes
Couldn't get the emotions I try to express,in my poems,right, regret,
True, there is no democracy even in my choice of poetic subjects,
Disorder could be the suited order in making my inner world speak.
It's as if I am some other guy when I write, my heart's real prompt,
I don't even insist to be perfect,an inner voice wants to speak it's truth,
I am stimulated by a creative lust and in the frenzy of inner coitus,
Forget even myself,it's a race towards ****** and strongly I *******.
The oracular cascade of poetry, but happens in magicalmoments
