A swirl of thoughts
That churn and bubble
And fester and die
And are reborn in some
Obscure field in our heads
And houses in our hearts
That cannot quite be
Shown to others in a
Completely accurate way
Because it's just too difficult
To use paint when writing
Words that have no
Actual meaning at all
And then hope that these
Odd jumbled letters
Make sense to anyone
Who reads them since
They will surely ask us
How this is poetry
And we will look at them
With wide confused eyes
And will not understand
How they can't understand
That these funny lines
Are not meant to be known
But instead felt by some
Deep space that lives
Emptily inside everyone's
Otherwise-whole mind
As they are felt by us
Who have no idea why our
Hands fly across the page
In a frenzy of feeling
And then even though most
Of what we write makes
Absolutely no sense
They mean everything
And nothing to us
All at once
And then never mean
Exactly the same thing
Again.
YOU ARE READING
the mind's recesses
Poetrywords that fell out of inky fingers, and stained the paper that lay on wooden tables.
