I Didn’t Write This Poem

I didn’t write this poem;
It wrote itself.
Like rivers making canyons all on their own
These words spill from the pen as if the floodgates have been unleashed.
In a flurry of excitement ink dances onto the page
This is a ballet

I didn’t write this poem
It broke thought the walls in my mind
All sense of poetry has been blocked out;
Something had to change
Streams of consciousness feed my willow tree imagination
I am the cartoon Pocahontas who talks to trees

I didn’t write this poem
It blew itself into my notebook
The colors of the wind are changing my soul
What is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?
We are new music to old ears

I didn’t write this poem
It played itself out
Like my fingers used to play on ivory keys
Where did those days go?
I used to sing like a canary
But no miners took me down into the caverns
I never died
I flew

I didn’t write this poem
It grew from me
Like an apple from a tree
And I hope this taste is as succulent as a fuji
Dreams of Hawaii, sipping on a mango smoothie

I didn’t write this poem
This poem wrote me.
Because I used to want to change the world
But now sometimes I only wish to escape it
I had dreams of lives making U-turns
Acting like buses that miss their stops
If time didn’t exist, we wouldn’t need clocks
And then where would we be?

Everything is poetry

 

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