When I was young I longed to be surrounded by trees,water and flowers without bees,for
fear I might get stung:Overreacting I would run...act a fool when I'd see one. But no
matter the price,bees or not, I had to be in my poet spot. My poet spot was there back in
the day,but now it is not. The sun would undress me,I'd just sit while the soft breeze
caressed me; There I could ponder,with the water trickling underneath my feet. No one
knew this spot,I'd always go alone,so I could think my selfish poet thoughts.... In my
Poet spot,the spot I deemed to just be just for me! Thinking clearly now,writing freely
now,breathing oxygen in,I wrote so freely back then....I put back on my clothes,and dry
off my feet,and watch a butterfly carefully....I let the beetle free ,who kept me company
against his will. I made two Praying Mantis fight.I knew this wasn't right....
Then I'd go home.!