(poems go here) Again I write to get these thoughts
Out of the clutter of my brain
But, as the pen moves across paper, or skin,
I find they cannot contain

The mechanism inside my head
Turns faster with a loud tick tock
And with the wheels, my pen moves
To the beat of my writing clock.

You ask me why I write this
Of all the poems I could write,
Of long lost love, or a prairie field,
Or a mischievous singing sprite.

I tell you it’s not for the glory,
Or for the analyst to mock
But, just to see my pen move
To the beat of my writing clock.