A poet's mind is seldom still,
It fluctuates with mood,
and suddenly the words pour out,
flowing freely,
kind thoughts or rude.
Down on paper, they must go,
before the burning fire dies,
He or she must speak the words,
before the words in silence lies.
The pen compels the writing hand,
the brain, the ample fuel,
feelings and thoughts are etched in ink,
an artist's sketch, with rhyme its rule.
A tendency of mood so strong, that if
ignored, the body would not sleep,
it must be written down, before it's lost,
This urge is so compelling, images to keep.
This is my six minute poem, to say
whatever comes to mind,
and when at last the final thought is gone,
Perhaps then, the poet can unwind.

david lessard

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-six-minute-poem-2/