Though this is the last page

For this volume of poetry...

It is not the last I will write. 

This is just another page 

Pen to paper,

To which the poetry will flow...

And When the time comes

I guarantee more verse will always 

Be there to go.

I feel the end of the volume

drawing closed and realize

that poetry doesn't end,

it continues as long as life

causes ink to hit the page.



Perhaps it is but a few more words

to weave the idea into the volume 

I am currently writing that poetry

transcends space and time.

Though I set a goal

and am nearly there 

I am no where near 

stopping yet.



my pen will be writing poetry

till the day I pass from this life...



I don't know how

to stop the words

from flowing 

as the waterfall 

from deep within.

I have an obsession with poetry

iambic meter or free verse,

all forms excite me.



lifting pen to page

gives me a thrill 

no amusement park can 

rival.

It takes so many forms
the words arrange so perfectly,
but the rules make writing poetry 
a basic pain.

I am a free poet,
because I do not like the rules.
For me letting the poetry fly as it chooses
seems to fit more stylistically.

Poetry has always been

my brain's escape,

perhaps because words

were comforting 

to the lost child within me.



comfort the little one

with such an echoing voice 

so the whole world hears my choice.

so many people see

poetry as above their

ability to understand,

I think it merely means 

that they have not seen 

a poem that is written 

for them.



poetry is something

of a personal nature,

what moves me may

never touch your soul.

the pen yearns

to bleed the soul dry

writing verse to page 

that will leave nary 

the dry eye.



the poet may have moments

of foggy brain and lack of muse,

still the urge to lift the pen 

will always be there.

there's so many ways

to write poetry 

that no two poems

even if written on 

the same topic

e'er need to be alike.



instead poetry is more

akin to wildflowers 

each one beautiful 

in its own way.

the poet was lost
In the words

rooted to the poem
as the ink dries

the poetry that flowed
was just as lovely 

as the poet's soul
and lived into eternity