Wandering Poet

I like taking long walks on the beach, with a pineapple mango smoothie in hand. 
I carve words into soaked sand. 
Hoping that when they get washed away, their meanings get caught in currents, riptides, sending good tidings in tidal waves tumbling towards distant lands at war. 
They couldn't use their words. 
I hope she picks up the pen before the sword reaches her wrists.
Love. Peace. Passion. Happiness. 
Poetry is what I wrote in the sand.
I'm Peter Lange. 
A writer. 
A lover not a fighter. 
A passionate poet, if you couldn't already tell, from what I've been screaming from the bottom of the inkwells of every writer that wrote to find a meaning. 
The meaning for me is to give abandoned ideals a home.
Then convert them into meals of steaming food for thought. 
I know I did my job when a listener tells me it hit the spot.
My soul, it spills for you.
I'm not the tallest glass of water, but a shot glass of me will quench your thirst.                     You can crop me out your perfect picture.                                                                                I'm perfectly imperct i don't need #nofilter                                                                              I vent in verse.                                                                                                                            Flow in Hues.                                                                                                                              Im Langston.                                                                                                                        No, I'm Lange's Son.                                                                                                             I'm  a Wandering Poet