I’m just a simple poet poor
But when I have the time
I put my pen to paper
And create a little rhyme.
The inspiration comes to me
From where it is unknown
But when it does I have
To simply, somehow, set the tone.
Knowing how to speak to you
Just how to break the ice
To create a little atmosphere
And assume a teller’s voice.
The subject sometimes strikes
Me as perhaps a tad absurd,
But when it enters in my head
I just have to write the word.
I don’t know how it started
Or if in time will end
All I know for certain
Is, I wish not to offend.
As the spirit enters in
My mind is in turmoil
Will it all be worth it?
And has it any style?
Does it really matter?
Will each word go unread?
Perhaps end in the dustbin
Or be good when I’m dead.
It’s not a sickness, I don’t think,
And not as if I’m mental,
Perhaps I am just full of it
And a touch too sentimental.
I do know though it’s better out
Than bubbling up inside
And that poetry will only die
When present Worlds collide.