I am Poetrys Puppet
Words prance down onto a napkin, a slip of paper, a receipt, a sticky note
Willful words, led by whom? I doubt it is me; I would like to rest sometimes.
Yet, writing insists on her own way – in the car, a restaurant, at a ball game.
Poetry is something that comes naturally to some of us.
Insisting on her own way, throwing herself onto a computer screen.
In my case, she has a will greater than my own. I cannot slow her down.
I cannot dissuade her or entice her to bother someone else.
It is me she is after. She wakes me up with an ending line.
Not daily, but more often than not. It is up to me to honor her wishes.
She is my task master, my instructor, my muse, my power house.
Her words form into a secret surprise, every single time.
I never know where she is going to end up. She rules me.
I write because I cannot NOT write.
Poetry is an outlet for my creativity that makes me happy.
She inspires me, treats me, and treasures me.
I am her puppet.
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