This is not a song, either.
This, scribbles on a page,
is nothing of consequence.

It is but an exercise for my hand
[an effort to maintain my penmanship],
and perhaps for my mind
[my sanity].

An attempt to loosen the bolts,
which keep everything locked tight.
A mere effort to coerce the tumult of my mind,
to spill out onto the page, and arrange itself neatly.

This is not a poem, like everything else I write,
but it has brought some organization
to my scattered mind, this night.