I went to write a poem but
in reality
the troubled, pure
white-hot thoughts
aren't pouring out of me

Each exhale is imagination
each inhale is a knife,
somewhere in my chest's frustration
it cut the former's life

So I lay here
with goosebumps
and creativity stirring,
trying not to fall asleep
with my mind relentlessly whirring

The poem that I meant to leave
has not been left here,
but instead swims inside of me
through innovation and fear.