Oh Big sky,

would you make me look pretty too?

Would my sickly veins be something of a golden hue?

Would my dim-lit soul be of an aura blue?

I can rhyme & riddle
Play violin & fiddle

I can write metaphors and paraphrase
Sit in a basement or stand on a stage

I can narrate comtemplations
And describe frustrations

I can sit in the shade and describe what I feel
I can recreate the impossible and make it seem real

I can write stories about feeling distant
And tell tall tales of commitment

I can write In riddles without clues
I can write on all shades of the blues

I can capture the experience of motion
and make time freeze in emotion

I can write to match my mood
I can write them eloquent or crude

But just because I wrote it
doesn't make me a poet  

Poetry...

What is it?

Eh, I'll leave it to someone else.

This is just me

writing on myself

I decided to get this down
like clockwork,
then go paint.