Again with Words

Again I’m up at 3 a.m.
Again with words in spate.
Nouns and verbs
In pretty curves
Mix and match and mate.

From where they come
To where they go
They tell me not
Before they flow.
Up at a stop,
Down with a start,
They drive me mad
As I drive them home.

Will there be a point?
Should I seek help?
Will the little poem
Just write itself?
Will it stick to the rules
Taught in the schools
Of nuns and buns
And Jingle bells?

And what then?
What will become of it?
Some legacy for me
To inherit?
Some ink to spare
On pages bare
And there forever sit?

It’ll make no money
And make no friends
For it holds no value
And fits no trends.
But that’s okay.
That’s just life.
It need not be great
Need not be ripe
For me to love it
As I love them all:
My bratty little poems
As they learn to crawl.

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