Why do I write poetry? Because the words and phrases pile up until I don't have room for stuff like the grocery list if I don't.
My mind carousels unchecked
until I reach for my pencil
to free words trapped on one long ride.
The first spill from the carnival in my brain,
jumbled, tumbled, muttered, mumbled.
As they pile onto the paper, I pluck this word, that,
and shuttle them into lines of possibility. As the lines
wind into stanzas, the carousel stills and
the last few words are pulled from its almost empty
brightness to finish a rough draft.
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