This Is My First Time
This is my first time, nervousness, the moment is here. I have wondered what poem or words I should read. How should I assault and stalk your ears? Which moment of my soul should I reveal? Will it be the words of passion and smiles? Or will I allow the past tears to flow through me.
What poetry will I choose to unleash? I am nervous, what if is not good? Then I remember poetry is like air it is just there. Who has the right to say whether a poem is good or bad? When the heritage of a poem is written, when it is true poetry, the father or mother writes with the blood of their soul, it is birth with the tears of their hearts. Poetry is just not solely about describing the curves of a fantasy or some inescapable gloom. It is the ever encompassing of all the bad and good that can be arranged to rhyme, reason, and sometimes much like now the unreasonable.
This is my first time, nervousness, the moment is here. Its courses through me like an awaiting thunderstorm ready to unleash its fury on the land. It’s like the first time when I tasted the lips of the love of my life. The moment of tense joy, the agony of when to move closer to heaven or even if to move. I was sure my heart sounded like thunder. I remember the struggle for courage, even though I knew the passion in the vessel of my joy would be well reciprocated. I remember the nervousness.
The nervousness that moment was here.
