A Poet who doesn't understand life in itself
But does anybody?
Trying to thread words together looking for inspiration in myself and others
Fiddling with thoughts and shattered glass I find scattered throughout the mess
Maybe you only understand what you want
Perhaps that's not the truth
Poetry is a way for expression, as is all art
Free form is my favorite by far
A way with words, or so I think
"Plenty of ideas, just nowhere to put them
So here they will spill and stain this place of empty
Yours to keep and tame
Find them and choose wisely
Life in itself is no game."