The day I wrote my first poem
every inch of my soul
was still buried under this deep soil.
With miles more still to go,
I’ve kept on writing these poems
posting a string of non-stop words,
some could argue they make little sense,
while others have spent hours
digging themselves even further down.
Then there are the devoted few,
following me through every inch.
Here on the surface now, my soul rests.
I’m not quite down there yet, instead,
there are joyful moments of change
otherwise stripped away and explained.
I must admit I love the admirers,
the way in which each person inspects
walking around the poetic corners
careful of the layered edges.
Even when I pine away about a girl
every new poem is like my first,
I’ve gotten wickedly good
at whispering words,
just on the edge of her jaw and ear.
With a deep and hungry sigh
the girl confesses for time not to stop,
in fact, she’ll beg to hold the position.
Underneath her bright little smile
it’s now easy to understand why
I have no other real choice,
but remember why I must write
and get it all down.