Poets' Disease Poem by D.W. Good

If you can not stand one word I chant then I understand
Because I may, in thoughtful play, ail and dismay
One who might read, in choppy speed, this writer’s need
To urge, impress and expel the excess
Which is as a disease, wanting to share itself with everyone
Until it is taken in or cast out, with gusto
But it will not sit on any margin here or anywhere
Because it must keep moving and growing and jumping from one to another
Until it exists no more.