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