Each night I think I might write again,
and sometimes I even try,
but words never seem to want to come when forced,
and if forced they are often a lie.
I write when my mind forces me,
pushes me until the thoughts become words,
and feel that I will go mad if not written,
so that it must somehow be heard.
This is my quiet voice,
the one that I don’t often use,
it tells people the secrets of my true thoughts,
without the masks or the color hues.
My inner voice has many thoughts,
so many that writing them down makes my hands sore,
but write on and on I must,
or I feel insanity will unleash its evil core.
Mayhap I have already gone mad,
my hands not fast enough to save me,
maybe I only type these poems silently,
asking for a small grasp of insanity.
-NMY 20130613.014312