Sometimes, it starts with a soft whisper,
growing louder with each passing moment
Many times, it gnaws on your mind trying to escape
Oftentimes, in a dream, it takes shape
elusive, yet waiting to form
It is an urge that can’t be tamed
like an addiction of sorts
Then you find yourself talking in rhyme
You can’t stop; you must write for release
 
Oh! the ecstasy of poetry that demands to be heard
Only when it is read can it reach climax
Only with audience can the rapture be fulfilled
The whisper it began, then, becomes a scream