My poetry is a time of curiosity, of smiles,
And childlike satisfaction of using guile,
It is a gift, a talent, imagined or real,
That lets my heart express how I feel,
It shapes itself from thought to pen,
And stirs my soul to write again,
My muse is often witty when she has her say,
Mediocre poems are due to her really bad day,
They may be laden with imagery and flow,
Or fall flat on their faces with little to show,
But the worst poem of all is the poem not written,
It waits swollen with promise, as if snake bitten,
Stares forlornly as other poems strut their stuff,
And never ventures out, it’s not good enough,
Nor does it climb into one of my dreams,
Pestering to be written as a beautiful theme,
The poem not written gets left behind,
Forever out of sight, and finally out of mind.
