Why Did I Become A Poet
Does anyone ask a bird to sing or a rose to bloom?
Does anyone comfort a butterfly in times of gloom?
Reaping nectar is built into a honeybee's instinct.
Aren't thoughts and feelings, like chains of pearls, with mind and heart linked?
Themes, like flowers and leaves of the autumn, are before me.
I had to, as a gentle breeze, lift them and make them free.
Words sometimes flow freely, like whirling rivers in a flood.
They get blocked at other times and put pressure in my blood.
Are similes and metaphors, like celluloid romance,?
They're sometimes fireless furnaces and other times full of trance.
Isn't the coining of words like hunting the wildest beasts?
I pursue after them, yet, as though they are my heartbeats
A cosmos with galaxies is hidden in each little song
My poems, like endless gold or diamond mines, throng long
In times of endless emptiness, I take refuge in these
In turbulence and turmoil, aren't these arts that grant me peace?
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