Am I a poet?
Who knows? Myself, as such, how could I see?
Have I one clue of how to write sweet poetry?
My tiny words, are nothing more than little tries to learn of whispers from my heart. More often I let my pen dance, fast and free, with no imposing rules, the only thread to follow, ~a wish to be~ of words images and memories, each longing to get caught, frozen, kept for a moment more. I have no idea if can get one smallest part, one tiny dot of those almost unconscious instinctual thoughts coming from between the worlds, still, am happy and content, for, all that matters,
I have tried.