Scribbled notes, a word, here and there,
thoughts jotted down before they’re lost,
journals filled with rhymes from thin air,
failed metaphors erased and tossed.

Crumpled paper piled in my head,
stories that should not be written,
poems penned never to be said,
a single word had me smitten.

A phrase I think might become more,
a tiny twinge might be a seed,
a style I’ve never used before,
an allusion that might succeed.

Images that need description,
seeing a fraction of a whole,
each of these an apt depiction
of chaos in a writer’s soul.