"He ain't no poet (from Her To Him)"

He ain't no musician. 

He doesn't make melodies through strings & keys. 

Yet he composes, haunting memories to words. 

Not having to rhyme every line. 

But it makes sense. 

He ain't no seamster. 

Yet he cuts and he traces, 

Words plain as day and printed phrases on these pages. 

Then he sews and he weaves it with ease of heart. 

Into a piece of poetry you have to finish once you start. 

He ain't no writer. 

He's just a cup of pens. 

Stressed out, getting in between the  lines on his blank canvas. 

evocative memories released with every stroke. 

Runny ink mixed with kaleidoscopic imagery. 

He ain't no storyteller. 

He ain't never told a story in his life. 

Yet, from his mind I've read the most amazing stories. 

One; Of the summer and its lover sun. 

Reciprocating  shy glances, whispering I love yous, 

While kissing behind the moving clouds. 

Though night comes they fear not. 

For after the moon exits stage right,

There the lovers will once again unite. 

 

He ain't no poet. 

Yet he writes -- 

Stanzas, lines, verses. 

And it revives... 

And it revives; 

Every strand of emotion,

Every deficiency.  

Inside of, me. 

A lyrical perception,

Thought provoking,

Sheer perfection. 

Arousing perpetual reactions,

From me...

But he ain't t no good...