This paper is a blank slate
So they say
I can write anything
Just as it's in my head

A thought comes to mind
And I put pen to paper
Or fingers to keys
And then the words appear

What's up with me
That the poetry comes
Mostly unbidden
To be immediately noted?

This is sudden, yet must've
Been percolating in my head
For many years, to spew
To the fore of consciousness

I don't know if my poetry
Is pleasing to the audience
Yet, it is soothing to the author
To create in such a way

I'll fill the blank slate
Till there's nothing more
Of merit to ink
Nothing more on my mind