Sometimes I start out wanting to write a poem.
Things don’t usually work out the way I want. In fact, remembering the last time things worked out the way I wanted is a Herculean task.
It’s fun though, watching the way words meander across whatever medium I choose at the moment to capture my thoughts. Usually my mobile phone does the job admirably. On other rare occasions, my iPad tries. Hard. Never gets there.
How do I compose a poem? I don’t know the steps. Sometimes I hear a song, or a few words. And the lyrics just hit me. I wanna make something similar. I wanna rhyme. I wanna sing out to the world that I have a song in me that I want you to hear.
A poet and his poem is nothing without that tiny sliver of pain in his eyes. Hidden between those lines. Waiting for eyes that have known that pain to find it. Waiting, like a caged bird with hopes of release. Waiting, for someone to sing out those words and release it from its misery.

A poet usually sees the world and constructs words around everyday scenes.
The sky is not just a blue sky. It’s a starry blanket, a canvas for God, a haven for birds, and a metaphor for every yearning he wishes to achieve.
The sea is not just water, it is a rising, falling force. Home to a billion beings and a trillion colors. It is calm and angry and in fury and a provider.
And every little stone and spore hold within it infinite possibilities of being seen in a different way through a poets eyes.
That is why I am a poet. I believe its a unique gift. To see what others simply refuse to acknowledge. How do I manage to make the world a better place? I don’t. But I can ease someone’s pain, through my words. I can put words of praise for god in the mouths of those who wish to. I can see a hundred worlds in an anthill, and a billion stars and smile. I can be what no one else can be.
And in my words, oh look, I find myself
Lost, and loving it, apparently, appreciating
What wonders shall lay in my bookshelf
Where a hundred poems I shall write and sing…