Some are born with the rhythm,
Some have rhyme but lack imagination,
Some have all the passion,
And lack subject.
Some are endowed with poetry,
Some hunt it,
Others steal it from their peers.
I have to trap it,
And twist it to my liking.
I have to use it,
Like an addict I will do anything.
The rhythm sates me,
The rhyme feeds my fire,
The passion gives me drection,
And the form keeps me sane.
So I go from pen to pen,
Looking for the next rendition.