Why must I splatter my mind across the page?
All of my bent up confusion and now happiness,
simply ink across the page.
How many poems have I wrote about you?
How many times have you entered my thoughts?
At least a dozen poems,
at least a thousand thoughts.
I overthink everything I do.
My mind constantly overworked,
and underpaid,
for all of it's forced labor.
And yet,
It seems unreal,
as though I'm living in a dreamworld.
I must be thinking too much.