How poems are made

Sometimes I get these thoughts of what I want to write
Come morning, evening, afternoon, come dusk, come dawn, come night

I trace along the sides and skip in all the spaces
One here, one there one everywhere in all these little traces

I sit along my pages of what I thought I might have  done
Some words all weird and troubled thoughts of being only one

And to me you see
It comes naturaly
This writing I call my life
My pen, my mind, my page, more sharper then the knife.

Then I just sit down and wonder to only I
Am I here? Will I start? Will I even try?

And then I sit alone again thinking about some  times
Of how my pages flow about and it's many rhymes

I think of all my adventures that I've had with my mind
I look deep into the canals and write about one I find.

I hate sob things that come about and seem to make me cry
I'll be the only one right now to write about the sky
or a tug-boat along its shore, rowing on a dock
A sheep or two
maybe a few
or birds in a flock.

And then I sit alone again thinking about some  times
Of how my pages flow about and it's many rhymes