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.