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?

Savor these ordinary moments
Little everyday treasures
Curved lips and playful fingertips
Simple guilty pleasures
Stolen in the passing minutes
That lead us through the endless

Watching a world of blues and greens
From a gilded cage full of pretty things
Sits a little bird with clipped wings
Singing pure and sweet to all who listen

From morning light to the dusky pall
The little bird perches, enthralled
New stories to tell, a new song to sing
Pouring happiness out to the skies

Perching alone in a world of grey
Singing along for every new day
Until the stars speckle the sky
And the little bird dreams
Of flying

You can find me in the quiet places
Where the grass shifts in whispers
And the lilacs lazily bloom
Embrace me
Seek out my secrets
Hidden memories and intimate moments
Hold soft, and turn them in your hands
Lying on the ground, speaking slowly
As though the day were endless

Swallowed by these empty promises
Choking on the bitter words
Sinking in the looming silence
Frozen by these empty hearts
Choking on distant memories
Sinking in the desolate haze
Staring through these empty eyes
Choking on the unseen tears
Sinking in the quicksand void
Walking through these empty rooms
Choking on the dusty air
Sinking in the heavy gloom
Alone, and empty