There’s something about writing in verse

That lets me disperse

My inner realms that I too often keep hidden

The ink the pen lends bleeds the words my heart pumps

Like a detached vein that connects the inside to the outside

That eliminates the noise

That softens the static

It’s a feeling I can’t explain

But when I get the urge

I have to purge the strands of thoughts that bog me down,

that lift me higher,

the happy and the sad,

My hand escapes me

Twitching with an eager fight

to etch the internal patterns

that wind around this mind

Into the earth

Sometimes it’s a spew

of all the stew of a misconstrued vision in a heated tension

Sometimes it’s a neatly crafted unfurling of a mind unravelling

and sometimes it’s an enraged passion of

what’s lies inside,

what lies outside

or an integral experience,

Sometimes it’s fun

Sometimes it heals

Sometimes it hurts

and sometimes I forget I’m even writing,

Like a third hand

It’s always there

For leisure and for use,

A gift I’m forever thankful for,

A fire that I can’t help but keep alight

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