In a Fog?

Poetry is a passion of mine...like coca-cola, like music, like women, like life, like Jesus. Poetic.

Which brings up a question in my wandering, wondering mind...where do we find the line that defines where words are just words, and where words are alive?  What gives a person the right to say that their words are worth reading?  Worth hearing?  And not just hearing, but listening to and comprehending?

Aaaah, I don't know?  So, nevertheless, i write them, and hope that you read them, and think about them, and that those seeds grow into your own ideals that you'll water and prune.

I want to share a poem with you, one that i recently wrote, and found that it really spoke to me.  See, poems are like inkblots for my everyday sanity.  I can write words, and find meaning in them later.  I believe that most writers actually experience this in some form or fashion: like God's way of getting across to someone who is too busy thinking to listen to Him.  I've seen where psychologists will have people just write and write, and eventually what you find is that what is hidden, behind the surface, is what will come out through writing.  

"San Francisco"

Something was gone
With the rolling of the fog
And the wisp of the warmth
And the lips of my dear
Amidst my long and winding clock
Every tick and to-do
Mistaken for stock
For what was lost
Was what was wrong and what would cost 

The most;
She could not see...
And I could not stop.

I am praying and growing in Christ everyday, and I hope in some form or fashion, that you are doing the same...I love ya'll.  And I will not stop.