Sweat coming down my face
A pen writing in smooth pace
Saxophones and guitars on my ear
Cold drink on the rocks resting near
Moonlight through the window
Wind whistling between grass on near meadow
A lady in my thought
A night quite hot
How could poetry not sprout from this scene?
Yes, it is poetry itself…
I can’t quite put it in words,
This may mean I am not a poet,
But I know this is poetry…
I know this is passion…
I like it…
I love it…
And in humble words I’ll write it down…
And if this doesn’t make of me a poet…
I’ll bear no sorrow nor frown…
I’ll love it nonetheless, my object of love and covet…
