What drives one to commit poetic acts?
To struggle with words and lay out the facts
Of cognitive process probing abyssal zone
Of absolute being, of essence alone?
What causes from a poetís soul, ink to flow
And bleed on bare fields in patterns so?
What causes from a poetís being, words to fly
To alight on a medium, their sounds to cry?
What wrings from a poetís spirit, phrases of rhyme
So complex simple, yet cognizant of time?
What draws from a poetís core, melodic verses
That in tone and timbre, exotic beauty nurses?
Itís pain, rage, anger, hurt. And itís despair.
Itís all of the above, and feelings beyond repair.
But also itís love, empathy, happiness, and joy,
All the great list of pleasures they employ.
Warbles of language, the poetís emotions extract,
To clothe their pages with raiment, color exact,
Then juggle pieces fondly more precisely to convey
What brain, being, essence, core and soul can say.