Although I can’t write, I sometimes feel the 

Benign rhymes flow through me like a

Cascading river running through the Amazon and me 

Don’t want to sound unhumbled but subconsciously a part of me wants to be an

Effigy of a deity praised for my rhymes that 

Flow like honey

Goddess of writing Seshat, divine scribe, writes through me

Holding my hand as the rhythm of the words scrawled on the paperus comes to life

I can’t write, but sometimes the spirits of Shakespeare and Poe flow through my being

Just as blood flows through the body

“Keris you can write” no, but sometimes I feel emotions of the characters portrayed in my stories

Like an out-of-body experience I feel, taste, touch, smell exactly what I scribble unto my pages

“Monday morning mourning the mildew growing mildly midway up the corpse”

Nobody can tell me I can write, but sometimes the rhymes are too good to resist:

Ocean, motion, lotion, commotion, potion

Pragmatically, you can’t tell me I can write, but the alliteration feels just too good to be true

Quivering quietly from fear, quickly, brows knitted like a quilt feeling queasy as quails

Resist the urge to emerge and splurge on that ohso perfect rhyme that hits that spot

Stubble, rubble, bubble, wubble, gubble, yubble

They don’t need to make sense, but as long as the words merge in a way that grooves to the beat

Utter and complete satisfaction is guaranteed

Valiantly, visually, a part of me is bound to see the vitality and possibilities of the English dialect

Well you can’t tell me I can write, but the poetry that flows in me is other-dimensionally

X marks the spot and y=mx+b is the formula to my heart, linear and absolute

Yea, so maybe I can write, but the rhymes and rhythms never come easy

“Zoom room boom, no no no” I stare blankly at my computer screen thinking of divine benign rhymes while absentmindedly stirring my alphabet soup