Writing Poetry

You cannot force a poem;

It comes of its own volition

As fast or slow as it pleases.


If it pleases to come quickly,

Hold on for the ride, and try to keep up,

For once it has eluded you, you cannot recover it.


Inspiration like to play this game

Where it throws a bunch of stuff at you all at once

And expects you to catch it.


And sometimes it even throw you stuff

That belongs in two, or a few, different places—

At the same time.


I hope it’s fun for Inspiration

Because it isn’t fun for me at all

Even though some fairly decent stuff come out of it.


I must have a love-hate relationship

With Inspiration.

It doesn’t care.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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