THE FEEL OF A WRITER

Every now and then,
When he feels like a writer...
When ideas are embedded in his heart,
And every which way he turns
He bounces gently off the insides of his chambers
And
Each word tugs at his soul...
And the poem writes itself,
As they mingle with the clouds
And appear ripe for the plucking

For a poem gets its rhythm
From the heart...
Not because every line rhymes

And some of the words are theirs,
Lying under the sheltered wings
Of plagiarism...
Where greatness resides