A Poet's Poem

There is a thing with us “poets”. We see a lot, We think a lot, We feel a lot. We observe… No, not like your Sherlocks. We don’t observe and deduce; at least I don’t. I observe and I imagine.

I look at the different colors of the different faces of the Rubik’s Cube. I toy with them: rearranging them. Maybe I get it right. Maybe I don’t. I never really know.

I observe and I imagine. I try to imagine the various secrets of her bun, Or the reasons of his droop, Or the sights that the toddler sees, with its eyes wide open, In amazement? Or in fear?

I try to imagine, What she hides behind those sunglasses. Or what he says to her beloved, Behind the closed doors and shut windows of his car.

Love. Oh Love. The strongest of all that ails the heart. Its presence drives. So does its absence. Is the absence more strongly felt? I feel so. But I am wrong a lot. I am inspired by a lot of things. By anything. By the dance of the squirrels, Or the burn of the cigarettes, By the songs of the wind, Or by the frown on her head.

I am constantly inspired. I constantly write too. Mostly on the blank sheets of my mind. Less on the real paper. Can I really call myself a “poet”? I know not. But this is my poem...

I call it "A Poet's Poem"

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