These words rub me,
I rub them back.
Joggle them around,
my body never leaves the ground.
But mentally I fly,
that is until my mind wonders why.

Writing around this poetic den,
versing every thought I get again,
holding no words but this I might regret.
Throwing out my verse,
not even worrying if it's good or worse.
Every darn day I get this poetic thirst,
so I waste no time getting to the den first.

I feel like a jack rabbit,
because of this poetic habit.
Bottle of wine leave me alone,
let me go home and start over.
Even though I don't drink,
I can't get away from what I think,
or how I ink,
sometimes I feel like a ship
that won't sink,
then my eyes open and I blink.
This verse almost feels like a good drink.
I love it,
but sometimes I'd like to shove it.

OnepoetGem