I know not what I write until it’s on the page
These words are sent to me or I to them
We meet there somewhere in between
I listen carefully and they whisper in on the wind
Soft and almost inaudible but they are there for sure
I sometimes wonder if I hear these things
Or make them up inside my twisted mind
But still I write or type whatever comes to me
I thank my whispering messengers
For when I stop to read what I’ve writ
I learn a thing or two.
But often times I stop and wonder
Have I heard these things before?
Am I writing from my memory or my muse?
Have I plagiarized unintentionally?
I sit and worry that I’ll be called out
For what I’ve written might not be new
Still I continue with this poetry
Of these words that I believe are sent to me.
For whom do I write these words
That I set before you on the page?
I put them out for all who chose to read
Enjoy them at your leisure if you care to
But in truth I write these words for me.
I have this feeling that I must put them down
I’d hope that if there was a message there
It might prove to help another
But I have to admit my selfish reason
I thrive with this creative process
It brings a smile and joy to myself
And lessens the pandemonium of my mind.