Nothing like writing to live jazz,
Dining to the pizazz of a cold, foreign beer;
Beautiful smiles abound,
People, warm to the touch,
Enjoying a swarm of conversation and such.
A breath of fresh air; a feeling of debonair lingers in it,
Where you measure success by how often you wince in delight;
A tweak of your brow, a glance at the crowd,
Immersed in the sounds of earthly delight.
That feel of a loud, jazzy night,
The feel of another life...
These lights all around me,
They glisten, they shine with the promise of what surrounds me,
And I'm pleased.
As I breathe,
My nostrils take in the fragrance of a poem fluidly written,
A program so truly smitten by my pen's code,
Irregular soul clashing with hazy thoughts of a clenched hold,
Over this paper,
Over this latent place I've found myself traced in,
And I rather like it.
Just like I like my pen.
It's honest,
Even when I'd rather not be.
Just like jazz.
No comments:
Post a Comment