No, she isn't a poet
has never inked one
she takes off my weight
gets my things done

so I have enough time
to afford in a way
the luxury of rhyme
clever wordplay!

No, she isn't a poet
not written one line
clean is her slate
sees I'm fine

so I have enough space
and hour of my own
to indulge the grace
of thoughts mind grown!

No, she isn't a poet
no way she would be
she does her best
to see I'm happy

so my words run smooth
poems are easy born
truth and half truth
are spun night and morn!

No, she isn't a poet
cares not a bit
from her toil's sweat
my poems birth sweet

poems aren't her art
in the sun and showers
she grows from her heart
our garden's best flowers!

I miss the sound,
of being alone.

The crisp
rustling of leaves
as they fall from grace.

The rush of water
flowing in the river
down to the falls.

The choir of birds
sitting in a tree
humming melodies
echoing in the air.

The thoughts inside my head
whirling freely alone,
rapid and wild
without the voices
telling it where to go.

I miss the sound
of being
alone.

I'm at war with the verses lying inside my head,
Should I have been a doctor or plumber instead?
Some other job to be content and productive,
And not chained to this verse, this lyric destructive.

If words can be weapons and a lyric hold power,
Then I grow more dangerous hour by hour.
Slave to the adjective, linked to the verb,
Trapped by each subtle nuance I observe.

A wellspring of discontent, driven by rage,
My life, my heart bleeds out on to the page.
It's not simple grammar but linguistic frustration,
That lends itself perfectly to my situation.

See now my soul spread out on the paper,
A storm of calamity that won't seem to taper.
I am the victim of an invisible crime,
Entrapped by a pattern, a rhythm, a rhyme.

Trying, but failing, I can't even think,
Stuck in this ******* at the whim of the ink.
Now see the other side to the life of a poet,
I am without direction or control and I show it.

Laid upon the sheets, my struggle abounds.
I want quiet right now but I hear deafening sounds!
I cannot get out of this word laden den.
This is my sentence, a life in the pen.