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