Who Owns the Poems

When you try to write some,
Try to steal some, you learn.

They own you. They came in
From the names you thought theirs,

The lands and times wrote them,
The tongues that first spoke them,

And you were told to stay
In awe of who owned them,

Thus owned them, who wrote them.
But then, once you wrote some,

You felt them move in you
Like those winged things in shells,

Like those spores in tricked nerves,
And you shed them. You knew

Then no one owned us. You
Are all we need from you.