My suitor calls but I let the phone ring For after all I am writing It’s not his fault I have a hobby it seems I do wonder if he will understand To me poetry is like pottery in hand And my inner demons demand I dance We all have some Yin and Yang No one of us is the very same With surges of urges to teal tame I am a romantic yet I ponder Am I fit to be his girl wonder For my muse is one of thunder I don’t know but yet I grow To find enlightenment I hope Perhaps this gap will close Writing is for me a turquoise thing I can engage stage a dream For my hand he must be understanding.