The branch of my thought stream bursts higher and higher
This hailing; writer's brainstorm fueling the fire.
Some words of mine
Aren't meant to admire,
Though some I take pride in
And relive their desire.
Nevertheless, all words are children from this tree.
Where foreign pieces of myself are revived and set free.
Each leaf buds from the words that I choose
Joining in growth
For a fabulous muse.
I imagine a hill, at the top is this tree.
One with bright leaves of red, yellow, and green.
It stands bent and crooked in its peaceful way,
And in the sweet breeze does it soft and lullingly sway.
