It often comes and goes

The urge, the itch,

Of writing poetic prose.

When it’s gone, I’m lost

Trying to repair, stitch after stitch

So, so frantic, I’d pay any cost.

But when it’s back I feel brand new

Like I’ve finally fixed some glitch

And that old me, he’s gone, out of view.

It’s tiring, the cycle of rediscovery,

It seldom goes without a hitch.

But that challenge isn’t above me.