Bored Poets Are Dangerous

Be'ware the ones who like to write,

Who handle words without remorse.

It starts with just an idea, that's all,

A muse if you will, not much of course.

Then an idea becomes a thought;

What follows from here can never be taught.

The thought long sought, not bought but caught,

Once got, he ought not fought a lot.

Then things start to get strange;

He'll lose control over all of his range.

The words themselves will almost rearrange,

And all that he says begins to change.

Soon stuff stops storing sense,

Sanity ceasing, certainty sold.

Then things thought through thoroughly thrash,

Throwing thinner thoughts through the threshold.

Finally, the fires begin to fade,

The artist gazes upon his piece,

And, whether it be stone or jade,

He can still say, "Eh, it was fun, at least."

"Now., to get someone else to read it..."