I’ve thought
a while about that
naked urge to
create something
with words
that expresses
just a little bit
of who I am.
That naked urge
is always there
ready for release
in moments of
inspiration and
in spaces
of insight
where I think
I see clearly
and look above
the dullness
of the everyday.
I don’t honestly
expect anything
to come from,
or anyone
to care about,
this strange little urge
of mine.
Perhaps it exists
to keep me existing
and to help me care
just enough about life,
when I have too often
the dreaded tendency
not to care.
What I do know
is that this drive
to create these
packets of words
is a source
of some level
of shame for me,
as I contemplate
who I am
and what company
I claim to keep.
I write poetry because…
well…it just seems to happen;
It just wants to come,
as sure as I sleep,
as certain as I wake,
as predictable as
each new day.
3/9/2016