I write with my head
Just my goddamn glorious head
No pen, no heavy laptop, no nothing really
Well, that’s not entirely true but I do think that you get me
Things just seem to float on up inside – sometimes what’s bad will hide it out for a time, but more often than not it manages to unearth the zone right across the front that I have finally come to equate with bringing a poem on home
I don’t know the name of it to be perfectly honest, that piece of the brain
I mean, I’m pretty sure that there is a name, there has to be
But I cannot be arsed to go searching on Google
Too much research, never enough of what’s real
Steals your goddamn thunder in a way
And I do get that every one of us wants to write that perfect poem – be it fitting for one person, utter tragedy for another
So long as your words get leant a borrowed eye, a cocked ear
You’ll be doing oh so well
I guess there is a certain degree of formation too – certain words and phrases that grab you
Take me in, longing to ask me to find them a place, unwind them rather naturally upon that page
Creating a face all of it’s own
Don’t get me wrong, there’s rage for sure, a helluva lot of that going on
Critics, God awful critics who need to bring you down time again
“You rhyme too much… you’re using it for a goddamn crutch!”
So on and so forth
I ain’t no Wordsworth but I can give it a shot
I do await that almighty touch to land itself upon my lap
Trapping you all in the most delightful fashion possible
Passion burning for all of eternity
A name on everyone’s lips
A young poet laureate forever and a day equipped