I often sit
and look
at the elusive elevations
of an orange moon.
With pen and paper in my palms -
trying to write the words,
whispered by the spurious wings
of wind.
I am but an amateur,
clutched inside universal umbrellas
of metaphors and alliteration.
As clouds billow
across the horizon
and distant birds whistle
the interlude of bedtime,
I close the curtains.
But the breeze still brushes
the window dressing
and shows I've slanderously slain
the cryptic reflection of poetry.
I am but an unskilled individual,
living iridescent idiosyncrasies
of concrete and abstract concentration.
If only I could weave words
- like antiqued lace -
and let them dance
as beautifully as a web
waltzing with nature's breath.
Yet, I will always be
a 'victim' of limited eliminations
as I'm not capable
of passing provinces of literature.
I am but a placeholder.
Adding your comment:
Also, very busy at work with summer season so it would have been too hectic to judge them on time too 
so I hope to see you in there back again 
;
lol
lol 
Hetohke'e * 
