my poems just keep coming
back to me
back at me
like the rain
like the hurricane
like the thunder.
they come in my sleep,
they come in my car,
at work, at lunch
or dinner time
or anytime I come.
they boil inside me,
getting ready for me to
get them out there
on the piece of paper.
give them some life,
make them real,
make them alive,
bring back to life
just like my thoughts:
sad,
funny,
mean,
dumb,
whatever.
as long as they keep coming
i feel good,
i feel great,
i feel alive.
even when I don’t feel
like writing
i always have my poems.
they will never leave me alone,
even tonight,
the deep and dark and drunken night,
rain or snow or cigarette smoke all over.
my poems are my soul, they keep me going
even after rough days like this
when I am so fucking tired,
i need some wine and poetry
to save me.