Something Like A Bug (Poetry)

If I am not a poet
why have I so much to say?
I feel undressed without a pen
I can’t describe the day

If I am not a poet
what is it that I write?
Why do these thoughts come forcing through
and keep me up all night?

I wasn’t born a poet
my genes weren’t primed with verse
it’s surely something like a bug
and lately it’s got worse

Ink’s infectious — so beware
the urge to scribble down
for every quirky thought will sprout
just like a seed you’ve sown

Line by line these ideas grow
and then before you know it
you’ve birthed a rhyme upon the page
henceforth you’re dubbed a poet

Once I avoided and denied it
but the habit’s set to stay
and the rules are really simple —
not much glory and no pay

So I don’t know why I do it
it can sometimes feel a sham
but if I am not a poet
then I don’t know who I am