Pens and Pages

He says 'tis not poetry what you write. 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. A floating second on someone's news feed, 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.

She swirls around the same old swing, Like leaves that float and fly for a new breeze, The same park where benches lay adorned, The same garden of memories, of love and lovelorn... A gentle drizzle that comes every eve, Does make her not smile nor blink. She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors, A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm. Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings, A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.