Do I really like poetry?
Do I like the words, the rhythms
the meanings driven
up the motorways of life?
the cars spilling out pollution
the arguments with the wife
do I like the metaphors and similes
that are born from revelations and strife?
I like lyrics
Lyrically well placed
we played puns
heart strings strummed
I like the cadence of thoughts
the odd political retaught
the answers to the universe that fit on a postcard
and s-t-r-e-t-c-h
Across the forest of pines
but I want to find the answers that are mine
that is why I write
to set my own page alight
with my own theories
I must never become too weary
world worn
I answer your lies with a word storm
and the words become me.