Before me is a blank page
Awaiting to be filled
And so I will sit here and spill
The words from the tattered heart within my ribcage
Struggling to find the correct diction
To bring light to my position
The ever roaring chaos within my mind
Clouds the creative process from time to time
But at times that roar
Becomes a whisper and rolls down my spinal chord
Through tissues and blood into my chest
And then I am allowed to express
These wild, demented feelings and thoughts
In the form of letters strewn together
Lines and swirls and dots
Forming the characters
Before me on this once blank page
Which has now become a stage
To present the troublesome strain
That life places on my brain
Dramatic and tragic
But isn’t that what poetry usually consists of?
Pain and angst and emotional stuff
I tend to ramble too much in my writings
Or not say enough
Because either I think of too little
Or can never shut up