This could be a poem

I fell in love with Sarah Kay's poetry, poetry meant to be spoken, heard, the sounds amplified by microphone, or wind blown to my ears, or by a breeze I sorely need on a dry, humid day.

It doesn't look like the usual shape, of lines, marching to the end, only to free fall at the end of a cliff, thoughts lost in the white space, unheard of again, but then every word marches on.

I wish this poem were as pretty as my wife, who cheers my heart every day I see her, as pretty as neon lights in busy city districts, eye-candy, but without the drudgery, poverty of shanties hidden behind makeshift walls.

This could be a poem, between words, spaces and pretensions, wanting to become, to rise above the ground, like a seedling, to see the sunlight, and to taste the rain.