I had a blank piece of paper
And my thoughts I could not taper.
They seemed to want to flow,
As though I let them go.
I write with rhythms and rhymes,
As I have a thousand times.

But not I had a piece of paper,
That seemed to want a favor.
I compelled me to write,
As though I’d seen a light.

I wrote how the paper felt,
As if it had been dealt,
With a voice so strong to hear,
That it drew my hand near.

I had a blank piece of paper
And on it I wrote with fever.
It clears the soul and heart,
To write about things too tart.

People don’t like poetry all that much,
But it seems to hold a certain touch,
That brings your mind to clear,
And allows you soul to hear.