I love these places, the eclectic mix of tongues and stonewall faces, the words,  the prose, the poems, the stories that are told, unfold.

It's fully feasible that we are fish out of water, swimming against the tide the storm can swell and drag us under, a raft of spoken words behold their wonder, leading to calmer shores through rhyme and reason,  lapping against dry sunkissed lips, parched, thirsty poets wait for words to free them.

Words wash up against the shore  leaving rippled traces.

I love these places, the eclectic mix of tongues and stonewall faces, the words, the prose, the poems, the  stories that are told, unfold.

We gather, uncompromised and await the voices, creating similes,  meteors and facts,we unburden stories, holding breaths, we breath fresh thoughts and colour,  portraying palletes that are yet unpainted, once secreted in minds are now publicly liberated, and held within expressions upon your faces.

Carved stone effigies that the these words have created.

I love these places, the eclectic mix of tongues and stonewall faces, the words,  the prose, the poems, the  stories that are told, unfold.

Despite our difference, your words stoked and, framed my imagination, I pictured suffocating in a room full of negativity, the gnarled emotion of ugly screaming truths, and then you stood staring back at me, the pit of my stomach churning with nerves of elasticity, my soul solution is performing this, my poetry.

Words woven in the the moment that time embraces.

I love these places, the eclectic mix of tongues and stonewall faces, the words,  the prose, the poems, the  stories that are told,

let the poetry unfold.