It's Sunday night
and again, like other times before,
a poem seems to be echoing
through my mind
before even its been formed.
It's just a hint of a poem
wanting to come forth -
to be birthed as it were.
The words nag and repeat
over and over in my mind
and I keep thinking,
"I'll work on this later"
but
the poem keeps nagging
and repeating
and shaping itself
and in the mind.
I know it isn't fully formed
yet
the poem isn't ready to be written (shared)....
ideas to be flushed out
for something better.
But the poem
won't be quiet.
I suppose you shape a poem
or develop it within your mind
but you have to give it some kind of form
on paper
or on our computer.
That’s how it possesses me, now,
the formless poem,
yet to be -
the ghost of another poem.