Passing the Torch

I used to be creative, I was crafty with the pen People liked to read my odes And would praise me now and then Yes, i would dive into the river Where the creative juices flow My pen would seize the moment And take on a life all its own I would scribble til the morning And sleep would pass me by But i had to react to my calling Until it was emptied from inside Some folks say i have a gift And should sell a book or two Ive never heard of a rich poet Maybe when we die we get our due So one day some years from now When my name is etched in stone Perhaps my odes will touch one heart And the gift will carry on.