It's been a good while since I sat down
to write.
A word or a poem or a verse about life.
So easy do they come when it is their
time to be.
The words from my pen the ink and
paper that I see.
Some filled to the brim with their meanings
so pure.
From the heart they have come touched
by God I am sure.
Though I write they are not mine and I know
it sounds insane.
The words flow from inside from some place
other than my brain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I know just what you mean. So often when I write a real good poem, I wonder: did I read it some where so that it really isn't mine. But all along I know it really is me.