The silent
Blue
Streets
My pounding heart
My dancing feet
The glitter
Cascading
Twirling
My arms outstretched
My head whirling
Raining down
From
The sky
Sparkling like stars
'Till dawn is nigh
This
Is just
The start
Of
My
Glittering
Jazz
Heart
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I write to live. I live to write.
I danced through the night. And slept through the day. I'm becoming nocturnal. Waltzing on the bay. Jiving on the jet. Jumping on the grass. Fox trot on the field. Singing to the brass.
All I see is anger Writhing in my head Burning, churning Hot, bright red You wanted Poetry. Come along You may just see I'll show you Everything I've got Will you take it. Maybe not.
My poems are just doodlewords, They don't take long to write. I observe the world around me, By ear, by nose or sight. By then my brain has started, To note a line or two.
My poems are thoughts. That come from my mind. Some of them dirty. Some can be kind. I can write fiction. Or even the truth. My sexual poems. Go through the roof. Sometimes you won't like.
It's late at night. But I had an urge to write. Sometimes I get these itches. Ripping me like broken stitches. So I make a rhyme. To past the time. Or because words start to flow.
M usic, a huge part of my life. U niversal language for all. S ounds that help, calm or ignite. I t's magic never fails to pull. C omfort from pain, always something to gain.
It's all just words, And it's all just ink. But it's really much more, A lot more come to think. It's letters and sentences, It really is my heart. Writing is my future, My end and my start.
I don't think in music. I don't think in lines. I don't think in canvases. No. I think in rhymes. I don't speak in eloquence. I don't speak in prose. I don't speak in coloured tongue.
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