What My Poetry Means To Me

What My Poetry Means To Me

I tried it once,

then tried it twice,

seeing it was oh so nice.

Before I knew, it grew and grew,

I was so hooked I didn’t know what to do.

I had poetry running full speed through my head.

Even did it in my bed.

Now too many to copy one by one.

I just can’t stop, I have to carry on.

I think I did it in a past life,

I even write poetry on butter blocks

I do it with the tip of my knife.

My husband is happy, it keeps me quiet,

Say I should write a book, people would buy it.

Now I scribble on napkins, post-its, old till slips,

Lines come while I’m shopping or eating chips.

They don’t care if I’m busy or half asleep,

They barge in my head bold,

some shallow, some deep.

I’ve rhymed on the bus,

And in the bath, even queues,

Typed with one hand while tying my shoes.

It’s not always neat,

it’s rarely planned,

Sometimes I don’t even understand.

But still I write,

coz it quiets the noise in my brain.

More than telly or posh grown-up toys.

So if you feel it,

don’t sit on your pen,

Let the poem come out and then write again,

After you liked and commented mine, that is lol.