I may be manic and cause a big panic
If I've an idea and no pencil or pen
No paper to write on, no tablet plugged in
I'll scramble around while words fall like tears
I try to remember to use my mind's ears
The trouble with that is the words usually come
From deep in my center, my heart and my tum
My mind's ears don't hear the words in just the same way
There's a loss in translation, a meaning astray
To lose a good poem ruins a chance for a friend
Someone to relate to, an ear you can bend
Then to try to rebuild it is seldom effective
'Cause the brain gets involved and becomes too selective
'Course, thinking too much becomes so reflective
And you're left with a poem that's simply defective !
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