I've been a poet,
An entire year.
In three hundred and sixty five posts,
I've expressed the ideas,
Filling my mind,
Inspiring me to write.
Making me desperately sad.
Or with wonder,
Lifting my heart,
And making it light.
Poems that flowed like a song,
Onto the page.
Others I penned,
Feeling hurt and outraged.
Sometimes I was pondering,
The ills of the world,
And sometimes the hurts,
And insults were hurled.
To ease my own suffering,
I wrote and I cried.
But then in my enjoyment,
Frivolity bubbled inside.
Sometimes it was a chore.
But sometimes...
I wanted to say more and more and more.
Write to a friend,
Cryptic messages send.
Express my love.
Express my joy.
Be outlandish,
Or subtle or coy.
But to my heart,
I have been true.
And these poems,
Are my gift to you.
Oh the rapture,
Oh the pain...
Perhaps one day,
I shall do it,
All again.
No comments:
Post a Comment