Flowing

I cannot answer when you
Ask what poetry is, or whether
What I write is really poetry.
- I know my writing wavers out of time
And will not freely rhyme –
And maybe you are right
When you say I
Don’t take writing
Seriously enough.
- though I never show my
Breaking lines of
Disillusioned dreams –
To me, poetry is
Flowing water,
Rapidly moving when I
Try to touch it.
Gazing into it, I see
Reflections of a lake or
Muscular Atlantic;
A waterfall of ecstasy or
Dripping tap of
Boredom, apprehension.
I swim in it or drink,
Searching in reflections,
Defining, drowning, cleansed?