Poems

Poems are underestimated.

Every poem written has been carefully crafted.

A piece of genius.

A sculpture of work that does not mirror anyone’s in word or pace.

So difficult to place words that do not pucker out of place.

So difficult to think of inspiration.

Yet is lies waiting everywhere.

The paper you crumble.

The pencil you grip.

The window you watch.

The perfume you wear.

The bone china you wash.

The notebooks you stack.

The magazines you read.

The letters you address.

The post stamps you lick.

The money you hide.

The lies you tell.

The feelings you suppress.

The hugs you give.

The secrets you whisper.

Ironic that no one sees it with ease when the moment is dire.