Poetry should not be hindered by objectivity
The only thing it needs to be
Is a catalyst born from brevity.
/
Poetry is shaking hands and carpal tunnel
It is rhyming schemes and a tattered journal
It is now, tomorrow, yesterday, and maybe later.
/
It comes from the rain, bubbling out,
the laughter from a baby’s mouth.
It changes with the seasons
It grows in both directions
/
Every new passion,
pain,
forges a new page;
A style immortalizing moments in that way.
/
And there when you look is where you’ll always find me.
Compounded in the confines,
the freedom in my poetry.
Woolgathering 