Poems won't stop coming out of me?
I never even liked poetry.
I'm not complaining, it's easy to start.
It seems pure, and comes from my heart.
I don't know what's going on?
It just pours out, when I sit down.
Put pen in hand and the words arrive.
I'll write many poems, if I survive?
This is so strange, it's a mystery;
Never happened before, in my history.
I hope you enjoy my words for today,
If not, I know, there's more coming your way.
J.B. LeBuert's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Prolific ? by J.B. LeBuert )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Poem of the Day
- The Dog Next Door, Tony Adah
- Joseph Cornell, with Box, Michael Dumanis
- The Painting, John Balaban
- Time to Think in an Unused Place pt.2, cheynne dries
- Why knowing is (& Matisse's Woman with a.., Martha Ronk
- Time to Think in an Unused Place pt.1, cheynne dries
- Grouch Grinch, Philo Yan
- 'new fairy', saif gallant
- Seeing All the Vermeers, Alfred Corn
- Escapee On The Hill, Tony Adah