The love in poetry or poetry in love,

Which one is my forte I don^t really know ...

Or both or none of the above,

Or something in between ..., and there in between I go.


On certain mornings I awake being sick

With certain sweet disease that has no other cure,

Than trying to come up with words, which in my heart would stick,

Such words, which are in sync with feelings I indeed endure.


And when I find those words, my rage goes away,

Transferring into poetry so utterly contagious,

Infecting those who read - and that what makes my day,

Rewarding efforts, humble, yet enormously courageous.