Poetry is the street talk of angels and devils

Morgan read over the words that Ezra had written. Then, she looked up at him with a surprised expression. “How long have you been writing poetry, Ezra?” she asked.

Ezra looked over at her and scowled. “I… don’t write poetry,” he said, shaking his head. He saw the book in her hands: his personal journal. A faint flush of color touched his cheeks. “That – that’s not poetry. That’s just… it’s what I write when I can’t sleep at night.”

“It’s written in verse,” Morgan said, smirking. “Most people would consider it poetry.”

Shaking his head, Ezra stepped over to her and plucked the book out of her hands. “It’s not poetry because… poems are deep and emotional and they’re cultured. These verses are just… the ravings of a sleep-deprived man.”

“Which are very deep and emotional, even if they’re rather unpolished,” Morgan said. She smiled and kissed him. “I think they’re lovely, Ezra.”

“Thank you?” Ezra said, blinking in surprise.