You Can't Keep A Good Poet Down (Poetry)

Every now and then I flick the switch
turn it off — this drives-me-crazy urge
to scribble. It’s a mad persistent itch
I need relief — to somehow dam the surge

of words that flood unbidden — spawn and hatch
such thoughts that squirm and wriggle in my head
I’m bound to grab a pen, then chase and catch
stray notions — corner them — alive or dead.

Mostly, I haul them kicking to the page
pin them — nail them down in tidy rows
squeeze syllables inside a sturdy cage
shuck poetry from swollen pods of prose...

A curious addiction — or an art?
At times it seems no different from a curse
when slyboots Muse lets fly another dart
that has me hunting shy elusive verse.

I’ve tried — oh, how I’ve tried! — to shut her out
dull the stimulus — dark midnight’s nudge
her whisper soon scaled up to a near-shout
it’s clear I’m just her servant — a mere drudge.

So, here we go again — a fresh attempt
to curb the impulse — quell the rising scream
a modest output all I ever dreamt
not one so frantic, frequent or extreme.

Is there a patch — an antidote — a cure?
I sometimes find I’m rhyming in my sleep
I dream in couplets and I know for sure
it’s possibly the company I keep —

this crowd of poets hovering around
impatient for another turn to drive
the narrative — tradition’s formal sound
the way it was back when they were alive.

They will not stop. They pester, poke and prod
it seems as though I don’t have any say
despite their graveyard status — “Gone to God”
the most determined voices find a way

to go on with their works began on earth
and express themselves by proxy. So I’m stuck
writing — feverish — for all I’m worth
no slowing down. I simply can’t give up.