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why do I do what I do?

She, The Poet

Slip into her bedroom with her Peek inside her unlocked closet doors She'll open up her private memoirs A gift for you to consider and explore What hunger and lust inspire her rise? What deep seeded yearning stimulates? From her soul to her pen and her pen to page She has entered "The Poet's" dream-like state She is thirsty for the living waters As the caged bird wishes to be set free She is heavily pregnant with a poignant pulse That is waiting in exile "Just to Be" As she dares opens up another chapter Provoked she begins yet another verse Written words become metaphor and simile A docu-drama unfolds, unrehearsed She is, The Poet, who late night ponders Why these nocturnal Birthings vex her so? Why should she rise from her bedtime slumber To place her musings in ordered row To mar the clean white linen page She thinks should somehow be a crime Unless the words enhance the beauty Leaves the linen page somehow refined She has lived a hundred lifetimes She has dreamed a thousand dreams They congregate in her mind in rhythmic banter And burst aloud from weakened, stretched-wide seams What is their focus, what is their direction? Why her pen the medium by which they flow? Into a void of confused emotions She watches her children thrive and grow A pathway to her destined future? Or a shaded window to her past? She writes in earnest desire That her words will be words that last Constrained she waits for inspiration That echoes mutely from her core Her womb is taut with expectation as She, The Poet, late night labors to bring you more. Dowanna!