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.
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