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I never write a poem
That doesn’t write itself.
I catch a buzz and come alive
Like a puppet off it’s shelf.
Hearing many voices,
Whose words are never mine.
My pen becomes a painter’s brush
Forming visions on a line.
I seem to be a better person,
When it’s time to sit down and write.
A higher power guides my hand,
Sharing wisdom by day and night.
People born to create,
Have no choice but to perform.
It’s the rush of sharing their gift,
That elevates them from the norm.
What would our world become,
Without intervention from above?
Angry beings in a revolving cage,
With no sense of passion or love.
Tom Zart
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