I often wonder how I might be perceived, and recently I have observed a variety of perspectives. Sharing a little poetry.
It is during the times of patience that I have begun to see.
This is it, I made it. The Poet. Although, even though I have recently tried to stop being the poet, I just can't seem to wash it off.
When I take a few minutes out of the fast pace momentum life often brings. I welcome contentment.
After always been told to look for the greater good in a situation even when it turns out to be quite a crazy experience. It is not always easy. The interesting times rarely are easy.
So much of myliterary research suggests the writer is upon a predestined path. If that is the case, where will poetry take me?
What is in a name? Quite a lot. In life we may be granted with many titles, but how do we identify with these identity influences? Are they echoes?