THIS THING CALLED POETRY

 

This thing called poetry

Means a lot to me

Nightly and daily

As I’m thinking and writing

All while embracing the literary

And very proud to be a poet

Grateful for the chance

To have this talent lyrically

Physically and mentally

Spiritually and soulfully

At max capacity

As it runs constantly throughout me

Against my bloodstream

The stuff of dreams

And so, it would seem

To have taken over my life

Upon various degrees

And increasing by the day

Never decreasing in anyway

Form or shape

For it has become too late

And the moment has long passed

To pull away from this

And I’ll go kicking and screaming

Before I ever part ways with this

As this art of poetry

Is truly a calling

And those in the know

Won’t ever mind falling regularly

Further and deep into this art form

For I am the quiet storm

That was formed long ago

And poetry and I

Have done nothing but merged

And continued to grow

A bond at the molecular and cellular level

As I have bonded and revel

In the vastness thereof

With nothing more to describe

Or even speak of

Comes as no surprise

As I came to realize

As poetry and I

Are fully integrated and comprised

As this can be seen in my eyes

And the passion and fire that lies within

Having a beginning but no apparent end

And all I can do is win

So just let me and poetry be

As we

Send the poetic out

For eternity

As I

Embrace and face

With a pulse moving at a steady pace

As I write and speak

For this is my description and journey

Of this thing called poetry