Inspiration comes to me in a flash,
Thus mostly, I grab a pen in a rush.
For fear of losing what seems to be rare,
A sort of precious gem beyond compare.
Carefully though, precise by the letter,
For the measures must come all together;
Even it’s not complicated numbers,
Even if it’s just words all scattered.
At times though, since I’m me I disregard,
Measures, “smeasure” I mix and bend backwards.
Otherwise I just set things free – let go;
Allowing all ideas build and flow.
For I see nothing wrong with free verses,
Or to thorns attached to pretty roses.
All there is – that flash of inspiration –
That pen rushing to its transformation.