Poetry is in my blood
Upon a whim, I'll write,
Oft times my best work will emerge
In quietness of night.
I've seen me have a pen and pad
Beside my bed, close by,
When lines roll up inside my thoughts
I'll scribe them, ere they fly
Out of my mind, and far away
Into that black beyond
Where they seem lost, forever gone
As diamonds in murk pond.
Prefer to write in formal style
And with the rhyming grade
It helps me to recall the lines
Ere memory will fade.