Some poems are born
out of a hunger to be devoured in whole
Some poems lie in wait for
that opportune moment
to pounce, like unplanned babies.
Some poems leave
an imprint in the most unlikeliest of places.
Some poems are downright invisible, for all except you.
Some poems are so impatient; they have a mind of their own
they push and prod and pull.
Then there are those, that silently spawn
bashful little poems with a curious case of stranger anxiety.
The kind that crumble,
for lack of love, light and the will to live.