My mind can be a trap
that I do not like to tap,
within which my thoughts go round and round,
which I must bear without a sound;
and after some time,
I’ve begun to find
that that which relieves the brain is
to write a poem.

There are the days
when my mind flies
soaring in the bright blue skies;
it goes way above the clouds,
and on my skull it pounds;
but the minds of those I am around
stay down below, on the ground,
so to calm the spirit
I sit down
to write a poem.

Those are the days that are good;
but then happen the days that are not,
when my mind weaves a tight black knot,
and all my thoughts begin to rot
and all I am left with is a hole,
only mended when I stop
To write a poem.

Then there are the days
when my mind decides it better not to wake
because what’s around me may be too much to take,
and no matter how I scream and shake it,
I’ll always have to fake it
when I say my day is great;
so to revive the comatose
I take a pause
to write a poem.

See, when I sit down to write
a strange thing happens to my plight–
it seems it grows legs and walks away,
walks right out of the light of day;
it goes out, into another,
maybe one of fabrication or maybe not
and leaves me alone
and free
and maybe that is why I like
to write a poem.

And so,
I have written
here,
for you,
a poem.