I have a passion, a passion to write.
Sometimes it’s hard and turns into fights.
With everything starving for my precious time,
Sitting down is hard, let alone a rhyme.
But the poetry inside rears its evil head,
It feels ignored, especially when I’m in bed.
While on the job my mind begins to race,
Tumbling through rhymes, staring me in the face.
There’s nothing I can do while on the clock,
Maybe sneak a few lines and not get caught.
My job has been very demanding,
With poetry not understanding.
Now that I’ve started I just can’t stop,
Fifty poems down and starting to rock.
My mind fills prisoned by this unnatural beast,
When will the rhymes of mine begin to cease.
For every thought that runs through my head,
Begins and ends with a rhyme instead.
Sometimes it’s crazy and drives me nuts,
The words speak truth and hits home in the gut.
This is my gift or maybe my curse,
Is my glass half full or empty at worst?
Nathan Bane Leccese
© All Rights Reserved 06/11/09