Born a muse to die a wreck

I don't know what it is,
somehow, mysteriously
a poem grows inside my head,
verses sounds great
ends in rhymes
thoughts are deep,
with music as cadence,
never been written before.
As the poem goes from concept
to a form similar to calligraphy,
it falls apart, it self destructs
it wilts, it stinks.
So, here it is,
another bomb,
a muse straight from my head
through my hand-me-down pen
to your attentive eyes:
a convulsion of disemboweled words.
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