I climb into that hoard I call my room.
A crunch of poems lie beneath my feet
where long forgotten love songs likely swoon.
Tacked to my walls, poetic posters greet.
Hand-written journals stacked in corner seat.
Beneath my bed the dusty melange grows.
How many ardent poems hide their heat;
could stir, cajole? I’m sure I’ll never know.
Bold critics scream against my line. I’ve found
the world has left a large guffaw behind.
Brave digits swirl as poets free, unwind
while I convulse and center on my rhyme.
So deeply buried in my chifforobe
live all my opening lines , an anaerobe.