My Other Language

Hey, you're here.
I don't come here often.
Because the poet in me cannot be prodded.
Cannot be cajoled.
Cannot be directed.
Cannot even be bribed.

She stays inert.
Skimming below the surface,
Just observing,
Sensing,
Teasing,
Lurking silently,
Listening stealthily.

And then when she decides to wake up
And show up
And show off,
She just spews out words,
An outpouring of thoughts,
Gut spill, and heart bursts.

Rhyme and reason optional.
Eschewing the usual rational
Being who prefers prose,
The language she understands
With structure she can control.

But poetry-
It's a different animal.
Scary,
Undisciplined,
Raw,
Leaving her vulnerable.
Her insides exposed.
Her masks removed.

And then suddenly,
It just ceases,
Just like that.