Questions race,
thoughts tumble like failed gymnasts,
banging against the outskirts
of a brain too small for containment.

Answers are elusive,
slipping through my grabbing hands
as they try to contain something
far too delicate for one to embrace.

Silence tries to surround me,
offering peace in its warmed folds,
but the caucophany is my world;
anything less is foreign soil, unaccepting.

Pen, paper, pastels, pencils,
all attempt to give them form,
but the pictures on a page
are a poor substitute for the ones in my skull.

Furious typing, teeth grinding,
what medium will they accept?
None can consume; all can ease the pressure,
slowly offering droplets of wisdom to a parched earth.

It drives us all to the asylum,
words, pictures, sounds on the edge of hearing
if we can't make a path to free them,
and so I create one failed masterpiece at a time;
perfection out of reach until the day I die.