A poet chooses,
Many words.
He writes of love,
The flowers, the birds.

He mostly writes,
The way he feels.
Sometimes it is,
A way to heal.

It's hard to find,
The words that rhyme.
To find that match,
Takes lots of time.

And if the poem,
Is written right.
The words will flow,
Like clouds at night.

I love to write,
My poetry.
It gives me peace,
And soliloquy.

I bare my soul,
To words of fate.
I will not stop,
Till it's to late.

Where ever I go,
They'll follow me.
I hope and pray,
Eternity.

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