I’ve got a fire burning.
I’ve got something churning
Something that stirs me up and changes me.
Something that makes a difference.
And like a fly from the swatter
I am off.
Words falling from a pen that has yet to touch the page
Brain tripping out from these gold words buzzing away.
And my hands, my mind, my lips
Are a slave to this churning.
A slave to what must eventually flow from me.
And I’m left with the name tag: poet
But I don’t deserve it
I am just a conduit.