I am not a poet.
No linguist, nor painter of the written word.
I do not elegantly express myself
For some words flow free like lava:
Arbitrary, erratic, feral, indiscriminately.
Not carefully rhymed, grammar picked apart
Until it feels like perfection on canvas.
I excavate feelings, wishes, realities, pain,
And lay them all out to sunbathe.
To wither away under blistering heats.
I spill little actors that embrace my mind,
Giving them a stage for chaotic productions.
I am but a diminutive, despondent monster,
Turning disarray in my brain to entertainment.
To make them alive, real, tangible.
So that for a minute, I might think I am sane.
