There is no poetry without want. Desperate want.

My laughter tickles.Trills bubble up my throatand buzz out my nose.A delightful itchborn of hilarity.Joy that tingles.

I sat in a boxWith walls on each side.Not too tall.Not too wide.To think.To ponder.To pray.To hide.I sat in a box and cried.

A poet is simply an artist whose medium is human emotions.  A poet chisels away at our own sensibilities, shaping our vision while molding our hearts.  A poet wraps words around our own feelings and presents them as fresh gifts to humanity.

My favorite words in the world are these: “what” and “if” in conjunction.They question curiosities in simple form and function.“What” is a query of broadest scope.“If" is wonder that fuels all hope.Together they lasso the mind like rope, and spur the wildest deductions!

Teach me to sing and recite,To whistle and jingle and strum.Teach me to color and paint,To sculpt and weave and create.Teach me to sway and dance,To tap and leap and twirl.Teach me to laugh and giggle,To tickle and play and pretend.Teach me that life is beautiful.

I scared a little porcupineand caught a quill in my behind.It hurt so badly in my tail,but tugging on it made me yell.The porcupine was still around,so I complained. He simply frownedand said, "Stop whining! Look and seehow many quills are stuck on me!

The crazy thing about poetry is how its simplicity makes it complicated.

A snake bites your ankle.Recoiling, you scream.Fearing poison, your mind slips into a dream......where a man bites your ankle.Expecting no guile, 'Again' softly falls from your lips with a smile.Yet the man and the snake are the same.Your perception is only to blame.