If somebody asks you “Where do poems come from?”
Don’t search for the answer,you’ll never find one
& no one can “get it” till they got it before..
(after years i dont get it, but I’m still writing more…)
poems sit waiting on clouds in the sky
listening to winds whisper words passing by.
they pop like a bubble without making a sound
And bug you and bug you to write it all down..
No one can hear it – ( it’s all in your mind)
poems are waiting, for someone to find.