I Marvel At the Stealth of My Ideas
Jumbled up in the bowls of my brain
Are poetry words that do not rhyme
They take my imagination hostage
But do not let me take my time.
They are creeping out of my dendrite path
Landing fiercely on a virginal page
The white is rapidly filling up with words
From my muse, not the sage.
I can see some landing like paratroopers
And I mavel at their stealth
They are flying from my gray matter
Bringing me emotional health
For when I am in writing world
Which I do for my own sake
It is as if I am gifting myself
A reality-driven break.
Rolling out like thunder now
Words slide upon the paper
Where are they coming from I ask?
But the only thing I see is vapor.
My muse is slick sassy and smart
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2020
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