I don’t write because I don’t have the time, the rhyme, the state of mind…
Words unfold from my mind coaxed out from under a rock, under a dock, unlocked
they twist into form and are scorned until they are adorned, reborned.
Poured from my memory they are dumped out into eternity
the past becoming Present’s security, the future’s currency.
I don’t want to be a counterfeit, let what is writ be legit
keeping with the mind that it won’t rhyme all of the time.