Do Poets Grow on Trees?

They ask if I’m a poet
I say, are you a nut?
The world may be full of poets
I am anything but…

I write when my mood is right
I blog when I want to do
I ramble off and on
And pen my thoughts so true

The world is a spinning ball
The universe, my field
My words do a cosmic dance
To no pressure do they yield

They jump, they skip, they slide
They tumble left and right
They scream, they play, they cry
And once or twice, they fight

So that is how it goes
These scribbles on a page
Does madness make a poet?
Does beardness make a sage?

So thus I carry on
With my merry words so dear
But gosh! I am no poet
I guess I made that clear