Thank God for good friends,
With patience aplenty
Because as to talent
I’m not sure I have any.
My rhymes do not
Lift sweet songs to the sphere
My jingles more often cause
pain to the ear.
Still when I get started
I can’t seem to stop
Words tumble around
Like a fast moving top.
It’s as if the poem knows
What needs to be said
It simply has to get the lines
into my head.
When finished, the poem demands to be free,
It wants to meet you, it's tired of me.
Singing in cyberspace is what it would do
And so, reluctantly I email to you.
Of course, once released from my PC
That poem can easily make a fool out of me.
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