We don't write poetry.
It happens.
It hits you in the face and
demands to be.
Its pieces bombard like pebbles
thrown by zealous winds.
It wakes you at two a.m.
frantic to be free.
Like soul longing for body
it floats about
filled with anguish
and yearning.
The world is a poem.
Walking among its words,
often unaware,
we breathe the empty spaces.
We are all scribes,
sometimes setting down
a verse or two.
But...
we don't write poetry.
It happens.