There is an itching in my brain
a twitching in my fingers
That comes from hours of writing, not,
the thought that in there lingers
My addictive personality
has latched on to this "drug"
Those I ask to dry me out
just look at me and shrug
They do not see me with D.T.s
or waking in the night
With thought that I must pencil in
and make sure that it's right
They don't know the great relief
that comes with first draft's ending
Or feel the fraying ends of nerves
before they start their mending
They don't feel the blazing rush
that comes with your approval
And the smile across my soul
resisting all removal
I don't really want rehab
I've never been so free
I'm sharing bits and bobs of thought
from deep inside of me
I wonder if I'll ever feel
the confidence I fake
Or stop those feelings of surprise
when compliments I take
I'm a man advanced in years
still I feel like a kid
Exploring far horizons
that from my eyes were hid
By life and all that makes it work
the everyday details
And now I have a goal to strive
accepting no derails
Like Col. Sanders, late in life
I've finally found my voice
The poetry I'm writing now has
become my drug of choice
Richard Higley © July 2011
