Where are the stories, where are the rhymes?
Though we look into each other's eyes for hours
From one sunset to another sunrise.
He says 'tis not love if we await another day.
Where are the words you and I didn't say?
He says 'tis not about my daydreams.
He says we don't hold hands very often.
For the world is filled with contemporary poets,
He says mine don't fit this world of substance.
Where does the heart of your poem lie?, he asks.
A poem's not a breeze, long, that doesn't last.
A minute longer that doesn't stay,
'Tis not a poem, 'tis what your feelings say.
No dearth of meanings for those who read,
Not my stories but 'tis what I think,
I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.