Writing
My suitor calls but I let the phone ring
For after all I am writing
It’s not his fault I have a hobby it seems
I do wonder if he will understand
To me poetry is like pottery in hand
And my inner demons demand I dance
We all have some Yin and Yang
No one of us is the very same
With surges of urges to teal tame
I am a romantic yet I ponder
Am I fit to be his girl wonder
For my muse is one of thunder
I don’t know but yet I grow
To find enlightenment I hope
Perhaps this gap will close
Writing is for me a turquoise thing
I can engage stage a dream
For my hand he must be understanding.
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