My Poems

The books are filled, set on a shelf, dusty, all by themself. Daily entries of thought and reflections, sometimes, just mere simple imperfections, spread out over the years dispersed by heartaches and tears; contemplative meditations on the world, begun in my teenage years, living unfurled rampant, wild in their throws hit or miss between poetry and prose; gaps with meanings and revelations undisclosed too occupied with love and passions exposed why do I write this impending flow? who really knows? My poetry completes me expose' on who I should, could, and may yet be. More simply put for me and you it's my obsession that I need to do.