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