poetry comes naturally
like a drop
of sweat
or a fly
in your
drink
on
a hot
summers
night
poetry can
never be forced
pressured
squeezed
nor stretched
without
leaving
obvious
traces of
violence
poetry drips
from fresh
green leaves
after summers
rain
and from
the tiny mouths
of moths
so delicate
only a trained
ear may
hear
poetry
in its purest
form is
like water
to a
dry mouth
and food
to a
starving
child
poetry
flows naturally
from the well
of inspiration
that runs
beneath
and beyond
the reaches
of space
and mind
