Confessions of a Poet

I don’t write this stuff,
it just arrives, half baked,
a mishmash of what was,
and what I dream of,

poured into me, like a flood
through a funnel,
madness and minutia,
God, love, and erotica,

nature, falseness, hope and betrayal,
it all blows past, hurricane like
waiting to see what I can pluck out of the maelstrom
and set down in words,

captive, for a brief moment,
until I turn my back,
and it escapes
cackling in the night.

About this poem. 

“I don’t write this stuff.”  Seriously, that’s how I feel most of the time. I don’t write. I just open myself up and stuff comes out. It’s either madness or God at work. Fortunately I don’t have to decide. I just have to let it flow and try not to get in the way.

Tom