Poems write themselves,
it seems.
Some from hopes
and distant dreams.

Of memories,
good times and places,
seasons, feelings,
familiar faces.

A fleeting glance,
an observation.
A mood, a smell,
a conversation.

Forgotten memories
spring to light
from lying dormant
out of sight.

Of longing, loss,
fear and rage.
Words all flowing
from pen to page.

Pouring forth
from deep inside,
feeling the hurt
of broken pride.

The soul stripped bare
for all to see
this masquerade
called poetry.