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Poetry is the music in ones soul
The words that flow within my veins
I look at the colors on the wall
Or the flowers on the ground
They fill me with hope, joy, and light
I can hear the syllables and constonants
Pounding in my brain
The shapes in the clouds turn into pictures
The pictures turn into sound
The sound turns into swirly ink on my page
I've been asked,"What would you like to be?"
"Where would you like to go?"
"How far will you fly?"
But I have never answered the way "they" want
"A teacher."
"Paris."
"To the stars."
Yet I love to write,"they" don't know that
One day I'd like to ask "them" a question they couldn't answer
"They" don't know me so I'd ask...
"Why Poetry?"