The making of a poem

Someone once asked… so how does it start?
I said….
It seep’s out of my veins and through my heart
It comes through my bones and rests next to my soul
It expands my mind and makes it whole
It comes with no room for shame and no tolerance for blame
Not a chance of holding back and not possible to tame
Whispering bits of wonder it strikes in your mind as loud as thunder
You reach for your pen and pray not to blunder
As the mind swims in curiosity through this new land
It comes like a foreign language to the hand
Then it’s gone to find another home
You sweep up all the little pieces if left behind
And then you have a poem.