sometimes picking up the pen 

is tiring for me now and again

though I enjoy the poetry



the poetry is all I ever wanted

to write and I am willing 

to step over the tired 

to weave the verse.

the soft whisper

of the poet's mind

scribbled madly 

on anything 

they could find...



the rhythm nor the rhyme

matters in the scheme of time 



the verse is written

as madness takes ahold.

Though nearly ninety poems 

in this volume written,

Each one is unique…

                      Telling me that writing

                      Poetry about poetry

                       can take an eternity.



And when I reach the end

and the collection is complete,

Just for fun..

                     Perhaps I will write 

                     just one more.

the pen that writes verse

is fueled with tears and blood

attached to the heart 

and ne'er has an end.



the place the verse is written

often is peeled from the skin 

of the poet's soul deep

in the depths of what is unknown.

as the poet spilled

all the words across 

the page purposefully...



the pen bled whispers

of possibility and choice

leaving the poet drained.



the drops formed words

the words formed verse

and all of them became a soul.