3/22/11

I’d like to think the fact that we must wait,

Has purpose and exists by some design,

A pause penned by the architects of fate,

That keeps an ordered universe defined.

Perhaps, it teaches patience and respect,

Our reverence generated over time.

And maybe it dissuades us from neglect,

Lest we, unwary, leap and venture blind.

Could waiting truly be a random thing,

For does not our delay have some reward?

As wait abates the painful hornet’s sting,

Is not some method of prevention stored?

We earn our wings by each delay from flight,

Thus, boredom wets ambition’s appetite.

3/21/11

I write another poem,

To prove that I still can.

To show myself, if nothing else,

I meet this one demand.

Cause if I still am writing,

It must mean I’m still here,

This poetry is proof of me,

Albeit most unclear.