Poems come and steal my soul
and leave me here to bleed
Never wounding fatally
just taking what they need
An ounce or two of passion
a pound or two of pain
leaving me alone to heal
before harvesting again
Sometimes they give more than they take
with rhymes of which I'm proud
Other times my cries are lost
amidst the madding crowd
Yet my tale is not a sad one
for there is pleasure in this pain
why else would I keep writing
inviting them again?