It's like a poison, writing poetry,
It's dangerous. Only to be taken in small doses.
It causes you to behave in ways you never
should.
Constantly grabbing for paper and pen like a
maniac,
"Must. Write. This. Down!"
Carefully driving with your knees,
To scrawl the words before they're gone.
Tuning out your spouse as they're talking,
Because you're busy trying to remember
Every line you just created in your head.
"Shit, I should carry a tape recorder!"
Anything could set you off: a black and white
photo,
Your hopelessly romantic sister, even coffee.
But once inspiration hits, that's it!
The words start flowing, phrases start forming--
"Quick! Someone hand me a napkin!
Bleep it, I have a sharpie, my arm will do just
fine!"
Little scraps of paper floating in your purse,
Stuffed in your jean pockets,
To be typed up when you get home,
Somehow, always seem to go missing,
Reemerging months later, "That's where you
went!"
Not that you ever thought of it til then...
Yes, poetry, is very much a poison,
We choose to take, over and over again.
We know the consequences before we even
start,
But that wont stop us, no-sir-ee,
We like that sudden desperation,
Frantically tapping the keys before it's too late,
Watching our stories unfold on the screen,
It's the picture in our heads, translated into
words,
For the whole world to read.
And how we love the feeling when it's complete,
"Hallelujah, it's out of my head!"
It keeps us buzzing for hours.
It's worth the temporary insanity of writing,
Always writing, and rewriting,
Dear God, the rewriting..