The poet sits
on her posterior
penning poesies for the people

I spent years in a cave writing nothing but sonnets
I chanted my mantra in iambic beat
ate my meals from quatrain plates
drank my wine from gold couplets

used a quill to pick rhymes
from my chattering teeth
my hair grew wild and free as verse
my heart exploded with love that was fierce

and yet here I am, here I still am
coping with nothing but paper and pen

This is a test
this is only a test

you may opt to do the right thing
you may opt to think of all humanity and not just the people you know

in the event of an actual emergency
what will you do?
if all the weapons are in the hands of fools?

what will you do?
if the votes of many aren't counted?

this piercing tone serves as a reminder
you may be called upon
to do heroic deeds

In me there are volumes
upon infinite volumes of poetry
written in calligraphy on
handmade linen parchment in
a dark corner of my brain

crumpled ***** of paper
clog my arteries
words and symbols
seeping out my pores

a deluge of rhyme
a ***** of verse
a million billion zillion
ridiculous lines of litany

my time belongs not to me
but to a strange epiphany
not good, not bad, it is what is
each poem is my purpose