I am poetry in motion.
Waking in my bed each morn,
Until I rest there again each evening,
I am poetry in motion.
Each step I take,
Another verse rings in my ears.
Only I can hear it,
So I smile to myself,
Get out my pen
And write in on my hand.
"That was a good one,"
I think to myself,
As I continue walking.
With every breath,
Another rhyme,
Another line,
Another thought of symbolism.
I inhale this world,
And exhale my opinions of it
Onto paper, walls, skin.
I am poetry in motion.
It's hard sometimes
To be this way.
Overdramatic, some may call it.
You ask my thoughts and I proclaim
That unless you live, eat, sleep, die
Poetry,
You couldn't possibly understand.
You turn up your nose,
Think me pretentious,
And continue to feel in prose.
I am poetry in motion,
My every movement makes me want to write.
You see cement, pavement,
I see a place to scribble down my thoughts.
A big canvas on which to make sense of this poetry.
I often sit and stare into space
Writing verse in my head
Sketching out the lines with my eyes.
You may stare,
You may laugh,
But I say go ahead,
For I do not take my abilities for granted.
I see so that I may write about it.
I feel so that it may influence my words.
I taste so that I may taste my poetry.
I smell so that I may distinguishing the prose from all else.
I am poetry in motion.
Waking in my bed each morn,
Until I rest there again each evening,
I am poetry in motion.
