I wrangle words.
They're most sublime.
Some people say
I speak in rhyme
All the time.

I'll dream in verse,
Long or terse.
When my muse leaves,
I turn for worse.
It's a curse!

You may find me writing lines,
As lilting meter intertwines
With complicated thought designs
To paint poetic images,
As text aligns.

Or maybe I'll just break the mold
When thoughts take hold
And I get bold.
Or maybe I'm just getting
Too tired and old.

The world yet doesn't know it,
And maybe I'll blow it,
But I hope my words show it.
Then I'll admit
That I'm a poet.