Poems fall on my head like apples from
trees.
It's either a gift or a social disease.
We share our whole world with ideas
unrequited,
Waiting for someone to come by and
write it,
Be it something in life that is not
what it seems,
Or the longstanding union 'tween
science and dreams,
Or my twenty-year love affair with
alternative music.
It was just laying there. I decided to
use it.
I won't always be right, but not 'cause
I'm lying.
I might not be great, but it's not for
lack of trying.
Ideas are crippled shut-ins. To give
them words will give them flight.
It might not be for everyone. To me,
it feels just write.
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