Poet and Not Know It

Words wrap around my waste like a tight bind,

Somehow they manage to mingle than rhyme.

I can't figure out how they get there,

I sit back amazed and continue to stare.

Soon i see poems written about love,

Than glance to my left and see stories towering above.

How do they get there? i have not a clue,

They strap me to my desk just as i start to move.

They tickle my vocal chords and flow out my lips,

Than they are scribbled the minute my pen clicks.

A new piece of work is suddenly born,

Awaiting it's praise in original form.

I guess thats how the words tend to show it,

how one can be a poet and not even know it.

Author's Note

Little word play i had fun with. Something fun and fresh that seemed to just pour out kinda like the way i described the word's actions