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.