An idea flickers
A rhythm attaches itself
A poem is born.
It can sprout
Like a weed
In a wildflower garden.
With vibrant words,
Seeded with doubt,
Its beauty stems from its soul.
It can struggle
Like a premature baby
For existence.
Not fully formed
It lingers
Until ready to be set free.
Some poems can be
Gift wrapped
But empty.
Others can be
Sparse
But powerful.
Every first word of
Every poem
Teeters on a line.
Every poet
Walks a tightrope
Helpess not to.