The poetry of me;

I write to please me
Not for others but for my own glee.
Only then like river my words flow,
cool and beautiful like moon glow.

I write of death separation and pain
but also of love and joy yet to gain.
Sorrow etched into souls deep
of memories that flash before I sleep.

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People’s stories become my muse
with words deep I paint these hues,
their sorrow and joy for me to share
of love, despair, distance and care.

And know this, I write to please me
Not for others but my own glee.
Cause my poetry is me laid bare,
waiting to be found if read with care.

Its just me.