For all my life I've been filled with poems though I seldom took the time to shake them loose; did not measure them for meter, did not play with their rhyme.
Now they crowd my sleep, mess with my dreams. Mornings come and it seems
I've had no rest.
Brilliant metaphors lie scattered on the floor; turns of phrases worth dying for walk out the door.
Finally, last night, awake again at three, I lifted back the cover and turned on the light. I reached for my pen and that's when carefully crafted sentences scurried away, seeking the dark like cockroaches.