Dikt Poetry-ing

Poetry cannot be explained
If you’re awake, you get it.
I am poetrying
In the still dark winter time of poetry,
In the radiant spring days of poetry,
In the mysterious quiet nights of poetry,
In the exhuberant summer hours of poetry,
In the cool, vibrant autumn lapses of poetry,
Spend my precious human life, poetry-ing.
I jumped off of the hurry state
And landed, softly, like a curious cat
In the meadow of poetry.
I’m not achieving, I’m not becoming,
I’m not obtaining…
I’m just poetry-ing.

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