Lost my job in the turbulance of the tornado;

Dim the lights, torn in the shadow...

Whispers of truth; sound of colors changing,

My mind ablur from all the screaming inside the soul.

I hold myself a little tighter in the after glow of changes.

Waiting, wanting, worrying, whispering why?

Hold the surrender flag high.

The damage has rolled away as I sit and sigh...

The only thing that works for me is poetry.

The only thing that stirs in me is my creative flow...

I look to the sky knowing God made me a soul of living ink.

I hold open this fuel where words are a wedding,

and the passion you bring is the ring.

Dancing with the heart,

Vow to always make the most beautiful poetry for you...

Poet of the Angels compresses the depression of your past emotional pain,

Redresses your vulnerablity with rain down the smooth of your back,

Washing it all away.

Poetry is making love to the canvas beyond the light of your soul.

Creation in Living Ink, where only the creative hearts know.

Holding tightly their pen, their canvas of enlightenment ever flowing...