Tailor writerr

I write poems,
I can do nothing else.
I cut, add and thread those lying linen lines
so it looks all smart, sometimes divine.
Flat on the ground,
or anywhere around, I try
to measure the meters,
It irks me when I err;
For then, I’d need to do it again;
At times, I feel helpless,
For ideas and style
I look at the meadows and the sky.

Like a tailor, I stitch clothes of words
I write stories of my universe.
My needle is sharp, but also soft
I write tales of how we can gain
from what we have lost.

The gowns and the shirts
have magic wings and legs,
with them on, in pants and skirts
yes you can flirt,
not a bit of bother
even beyond the border
if you fasten your belts!
But they’re always made to order,
never readymade.
My texts hem from your mind
Loose or tight, they’re designed
To rock, you could walk or fly with thrills
To the oceans and the hills
At ease, without edgy peeping pins
Or those proudly peeking,
phony pocket pens.

However if I err
A little here and there
I do it free of cost
without feeling lost,
all over again
not a bit of grr...
for I write poems,
I can do nothing else.