Woke up this morning with an itch to write,
To put pen to paper,
To put height to flight.

Broken words for the good mans' soul,
I write to feel happy,
I write to feel whole.

Like an anxious athlete on a trendy diet,
I weigh-in to reflect.
I weigh-in to free an internal quiet.

Similar to an artist using brushes and paints,
I draw a paradise with fire,
I draw a hell with saints.

Feelings twist my fingers and toes,
Force me to write of worries,
Force me to write about woes.

These words are like screams,
They are my pain,
They are my extremes.

To think I only write of distress is utterly depressing,
There is also beauty in the world,
There is a myriad of issues far more pressing.

Yet given the chance I would write my worries away,
Save me another hour,
Save me another day.

I would wish for an eternity of bliss,
For everlasting love,
For time's abyss.

I could write about cities,
Filled with people and cars,
Filled with ruins and pities.

I'll sew you a quilt of all my fears,
Hoping no one realizes,
Hoping no one hears.

With this quilt I'd make my bed,
Rest on it with fluttery thoughts,
Rest on it with a heavy head.

And on it I'd cuddle with the quilt,
Wish away all the bad,
Wish away all the guilt.

For I know I could write for a hundred years straight,
Still have those debts,
Still have a tarnished slate.