I think poetry has its roots in nature
Like the choreography of a bird shoal dancing in the cold breeze
Metaphors dance within me like that
They come and go gracefully in my head
I used to think in rhymes
Or feel in a metric wire
Balancing between grace and sorrow
Now I just repeat words as a spine for the rest of them
I spill feelings over the table
As blood from sawing my brain to articulate
A single working metaphor
I'm a magician
that has this way with words
No matter if I can't accomplish what I am for
Something always comes out
I'm never out of words
And when a muse comes around
Words don't leave me alone until I put them down
Funny to think what I'm good at means nothing
If I were to wake up one day losing the gifts I can count
All I'd have left would be my undying desire to give
That only comes from love
Maybe people would create metaphors from the love I'd give them
To gift me something in return
I've learned the hard way
That because words mean everything to me
Because they're my language
Doesn't mean they're other people's language too
They actually aren't at all
I think if they were they would hold meaning
And by that I mean actions would take place according to them
Everyone can swoon over poetry
Or feel deeply touched and understood
But I keep climbing this hill
I can't see the top although I keep going
My favorite poetry isn't metrical
It's crazy and so filled with emotion
The writer just can't stop to think
One day I know I will accomplish a book like that
I don't tend to see things possible
But this feels as possible as the sun coming up tomorrow
It's the natural course
But even then exciting to see
This has been another attempt at it
With the result of just talking to myself