Why Do You Write?

The question was posed on this site.
Strangely enough, it caused me to stop
And get hit with an acute case of writers block.
Who would have ever guessed?
With words I’ve been blessed.
But now in my time of need
From words I’ve been freed.
That question taunts my soul
My mind is like an empty bowl.
Then became crystal clear to see
I don’t write words, they write me.
Awakened in the middle of the night
Words screaming out that I must write.
Doing my chores in the middle of the day
Words upon words pour out that I must say.
What ever I am thinking, at any given time
With a little thought can be set to rhyme.
The most awesome gift that does occur
Is when a poem forms into a picture
It sets my heart aflame
For it doesn’t come from within my brain.
First write the poem, then the font I shrink.
Then looking at it closely makes me think.
Substitute or add a word to make an indent
But not if it changes the subject or content.
I watched this poem as it took shape
Once again here is a wonderful vase.
Write the words they chart it’s course.
A lamp, a heart, a mannequin, a horse,
A sequoia, a teardrop, a diamond, a candlestick,
A combat boot, a mannequin, an arrow, and a witch,
An angel, a bell, a Christmas tree, a stemmed rose,
The most beautiful of all was Old Broken-nose.
I write for no reason, it’s just for the art
Thus, my words and I will never depart.