When most of us write,
in our poetry,
is our love, joy and fright.
Wrote out morning, noon
and night.
We run to the word,
some of us aren't even
read or heard.
Still we put the word out,
continue the poetic route.

Sometimes I wish I could quit,
but now here I sit.
Spilling the beans in connection,
many times not in perfection.
What do I wish to goal,
seems I only
 dump out my soul.

You have my soul and heart,
been putting it out
right from the start.
What is so precious to me,
most everyone now see.
When my bodies dead and gone,
my words will live alone.
Alone just like yours,
only opened through
poetic doors.

G