And So The Page Is Fed Poem by Heath Gunn

A jumbled mess of phrase and rhyme
All spinning round my head.
To get them out, I write them down,
And so the page is fed.

A multitude of rhythms,
All pattering away.
But once they’re out and written down,
I can get on with my day.

Scrawled on bits of paper,
On reverse of envelopes.
Poems of mighty questions,
Or how lovers might elope.

For there is no taboo subject,
No stone remains unturned.
For in my mind a thousand rhymes,
Of blue skies, or bodies burned.

And there is no sense to make from,
The words I’m churning out.
Until they’re set to paper,
That casts away the doubts.

So I’ll just keep on writing,
All that’s spinning in my head.
And commit my pen to paper,
Until the day I’m dead.

Heath Gunn