by B.W. Harold

Created on: April 09, 2010   Last Updated: May 19, 2012

It's a starving voice deep inside.

 It's a burning obsession...a glowing hearth.

 Though I know the world would love to give it a label...

But,  I can not always call myself a poet.

 My view is a fragmented kaleidoscope to them.

  The words fall into cue like obedient children...when the day is good.

 And others...they are unruly throne bushes, pricking my mind and bleeding my soul.

 It's those days I can truly say, “I am a poet.” And feel justified.

The days I earn it.

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