I guess I’m just an artist; I have found
that nothing matters more than to create
I’ve learned to love these words; I love their sound
I love that they elicit love and hate
Like rain that makes things grow and floods as well
There’s good and bad in everything worthwhile
They use these words in heaven and in hell
These words can make you sad or make you smile
For clay to be ceramic takes the hand
of one we call an artist with his art
It can’t be done with just a firm command
It takes the clear direction of the heart
My words become my poems only when
They start within my heart, and only then.