Poetry of many forms,
Has been created for ages.
Songs, sonnets, ballads,
Even pictures and paintings.
Each in their own way.
It’s all just what the artist thinks,
Or what they say.
It doesn’t have to make sense.
As long as he gets it,
Not the mass of people around.
If it makes sense to some,
And not to all,
Then anything can be poetry.

Your eyes can tell me a song.
If I knew it, I would sing it aloud.
But secrets you hold,
To yourself for now,
In time will come out.
Your beauty only a decoy.
Fo the vast knowledge
That inside you hides.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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