I like my poems short and sweet,
just enough words, spare and neat.
A hit and run, a punch in the gut,
A silken caress, a soft whisper, but...
Sometimes it doesn't work out you see.
Sometimes the words won't let me be.
They tumble out, I'm helpless to stop them.
Close in and surround me,
oh where do they come from?
I'm forced to give in, to allow them their song.
I like my poems short, but...
they like them long.