Poets Anonymous

It begins,

deep within the brain,

a tiny tick at first, an occasional burst

of, "Glowering!", or, "aluminum desire."

Words, phrases, and fragments leap

to the forefront of the mind. Emerging

from the depths where nothing was thought

to dwell, only the impenetrable subconscious,

lurking

waiting

plotting

for a break to the surface. One wonders

why these fireflies

and shooting sparks have suddenly

made an appearance.

The onslaught

continues unabated, the parts assembling

into something quite beyond themselves.

"Why," the mind wonders to itself, "this is a poem!

How extraordinary that I have created this!"

a moment, once occurring, that can never be removed.

The mind is now the mind of the poet.

My mind, now the mind of the poet.

Many consider it a curse,

others a mild oath,

others still, a base vulgarity.

Neither poets nor poetry are regarded highly.

They are eyed suspiciously for their

poetic flares.

Huddled in small rooms over steaming

cups of coffee, pints of beer, we rely upon one another

for support. We scribble madly,

sometimes creating beauty, but always striving

for what is just out of reach;

the perfect word,

the elegant and clever turn of phrase,

The Poem

We all come close to achieving one or more of these goals.

This is what forces us,

this is what drives us to keep writing

foolish lines in the dark