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