A poem
is the tiny voice inside one’s head

That cries to be let out

But does not leave when told to.

A dog that cannot make up its mind.

Poems are found everywhere,

In the dirty brown snail climbing up a tall tree.

Or in the fluffy white cloud seen yesterday that was not there today.

Maybe poems are behind the creaky closet door that refuses to open

Or inside the soft lush flowers that open in the beginning of May.

Poems are

Covered by doubt,

Self-consciousness,

and are shut away

Open the door and let words flow
Free

Or keep the poem hidden from view.

Put thoughts inside a chest and throw away
the key.