delusional.

write.

I sit down to write a poem, but I am not so keen.

My head is like a balloon; I would rather sleep.

In my dreams the words are coming, swirling to and fro.

I fill my paper in the morning with whimsical thoughts.

Did I write this? This is awkward. This is not me.

But I start to read the poems very carefully.

Then I find words, sad and nice memories,

I wrote this after all, I am every single word of it.