A thankless poet. (P)

It can come without warning,
That mighty urge to write,
Sometimes early in the morning,
Sometimes very late at night.

I look through my bag,
I find a pen and paper,
Scribble down some phrases,
to rearrange later.

I put my soul in stanzas,
I put my heart in the beat,
I put my breath in the words,
(It's not an easy feat).

I make poems to make you smile,
Or maybe to make you see,
Whatever ramble you can handle,
About whatever occurs to me.

Nonetheless i dont want money,
(But some charity would be kind),
I don't do it for recognition,
(But i'd like being easy to find).

I dont need an ego-boost,
Or to be thanked outright,
The greatest compliment i know of,
Is for you to read more of what i write.