Sometimes it happens like
Butter on toast,
Smooth, creamy, and delicious.
Most of the time, it's stilted
And halting.
Like hobbling through a parking lot
On crutches with a full leg cast.
Sometimes it comes from
The haunted recesses
Of the traumatized human mind.
Other times a frog
Or butterfly
Or other passing fanciful inspiration
Invokes the need for
Rhyme,
Meter,
Syllables,
Phonemes,
Morphemes,
Words,
Language,
Prose,
And poetry.
We write to describe the world around us
But much more, the universe within us.
Our words give life and tangibility
To the impalpable things,
And they take away some of the fear
And pain and grief and unconscionability
Of the corporeal things.
And in the weaving
And shaping
And forming
And rhyming
And jotting
And sketching
And rapping
And moulding
And writing
We find emancipation and satisfaction.
And thus...scrumpdillyumptiousness!
