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 

there's something to be said
about giving oneself over 
to the art of writing poetry

spreading beauty for beauty's sake
the idea of enjoying the verse
and the dreams it creates.

when it comes time

for the poet to set aside the pen 

and the words have come to an end

who the epitaph will pen?



the last poem

to speak of the poet

as though they were 

the poem.

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.