My pen is alive. Like the poetry I scribe. Ever waiting to pour out of my mind, like a fine well aged wine. Have a glass. Feel the drunken glow of you know me. Shooting star. Native of this land. Coming thru with poetic stance. Stance after stance. Music yet to be told. Writing stanza for time to hold. Writing to heal the soul. Tell of the love I hold. Of the things I see. Those times. That envelope me. Woe they be deep. I step softly everyday. Not knowing the deep spots anymore. I do know. Some can wrap me up and eat all my time. So I share. Pointed stars. Looking at you as my life unfold. I struggle night and day. To win over you. Flower like petals smelling of rose and germanium. Sprinkled in my life. Numbers carry a symbol. I like the number eight. It has a never ending loop. Continuous like life in this world of mine.