It’s an experiment how I choose and assemble words for effect;
An accident how through those words rhymes and images are created;
A miracle they sound as if beneath them were a beautiful message;
Delusion I see melody and posterity in my lyrics,
And I hear my muses singing, as they gyrate, head-bang like Shakespeare’s.
It’s a lie I don’t labor through the night chasing down that sense I still miss.
But why do I write poetry still, even if I have no talent in it?
I’m flummoxed myself just like everyone who has the sanity to think.
Please pardon my answer, as it may offend, ‘cause all I really know is:
If I don’t, either I’ll die, or I’ll kill. Yes, there’s no other way to live!