On Oceans of Blue

so this is jus a thang. like i said, im jus creative. no rhyme or rythm to what i do or how i do it. i do, however, view things certain ways. one of my big things is poetry right now. i love to write. it kinda jus pours out sometimes. the biggest thing about me and poetry is this: each and every poem lives and dies on a single sheet of paper. let me explain a lil further. a poem does not begin to live in my mind. its conception happens in the brain, in the heart, in the soul, but its first breath of air occurs when pen touches paper. the begining. the birth. when the pen is lifted at the end of the poem. when the thought is complete, the poem dies. theres a funeral which includes a rehashing of its life (posting it here or there or anywhere) for others to relish in and enjoy. on occasion the poem will be remembered at an open mic of some sort or in a discussion about deep things such as life and love and the reality of fate. the poem of course lives on in my heart, like a mother who lost a child. she runs thru my veins, beats thru my body, haunts my soul. i recall each poem with love and rememberance and loss. i read thru each one remembering the joy and love it brought. i read thru it and remember the sadness of its loss but the freedom in its freedom. its free from this earth, lounging about in some sort of poetic afterlife that exists purely in a poets mind. she is free. i am free. each and every poem has a birth and a death.