We poets are all Monkey’s with Typewriters
In cages of flesh,
with fire of thought,
We tap at keys,
by instinct or whim.
A game of chance and rhyme,
An epiphany scrawled,
or gibberish hurled?
A Shakespeare sonnet ,
or monkeys' world?
Each word falls,
a puzzle laid,
‘A world created,
at our fingertips beat.
Poets write
because they have to.
Happy for bananas,
or praise
though money wouldn’t hurt.
