How a Poem Writes Me

I have a way with words, they say,

I say they have a way with me,

They hide in a corner of my brain, concealed,

Then suddenly decide to be revealed,

Me, I have little choice in the matter,

For when they move they create such a clatter,

What a rhythm,

What a beat -

I can hardly drag my feet !

(Or hand should I say)

A paper, a pen -

I'm on my way !

Where to I do not know,

But I let myself go,

For rarely do they lead me astray.