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A writer writing a poem about writing poems.

How meta.




Where do ideas come from, where do they go?

They are surely as fickle as the errant snow

Sometimes they arrive like a sudden storm

Other times one or two is the norm

I can be walking or working or anything more

Whether I’m far too busy or being a bore

They come and they go, never quite the same

But to each and every one I give a name

A story or poem or even a game

Each one could possibly lead to fame

So I write and chronicle and jot them all down

From the darkly serious to the whimsical clown

Stories of heartbreak and love so sweet

Stories to move you up off your feet

A world of fancy or maybe sci-fi

You won’t ever want to say bye bye

But end they all must, I’m afraid to say

Tomorrow, though, is a whole new day

So I am thankful for all the ideas that come

To not accept them with grace would be quite dumb

And for as long as this brain of mine works

I will continue to reap my imagination’s perks

Fear not then, the ideas that fall

And just be glad you had any at all!


Thank you for listening.