Intrigue

Intrigue

I stand on the edge of a yellow wood,

Something that every writer eventually would.

My understanding, my voice

It comes down to choice

Do I choose this style?

What makes up a Kyle?

I often feel it is my wit

That sucks out brains with

My muse laboring in intelligent words.

But it could as easily be the words

Themselves insightful and not I

As each line goes bye and by.  

I should say it is my subject that counts

But there is no mathematics or amounts

And none of my subjects are the same

Because to repeat, in my mind, would be lame.

I suppose my style is that of the berserker

Because at times I am quite the jerk

I don’t even make patterns for myself

Because most of these poems sit on my shelf

I never touch them once I write them.

It is my head, while it is in REM

That writes these lines.

My style must be the mine

To the gems that are lodged in my brain.