When I lay in bed
Body tired, lights off
But mind on
I write words in my head.

They rarely rhyme
Or have any real basis,
Ragged lines
Slipping in time.

Emotions and feelings
Jumbled and digressed
Blurred memories
Torn into segments
Of little, poorly formed
Ellipses.

And I have the nerve
To call myself a poet.
Because when the words form
They resonate
Within me.

They make me feel everything
And nothing.
And sometimes,
When you read the scattered formation
Of my
Deepest
Darkest
Brightest
Most hurtful thoughts

They spark something within you
And you can begin to feel your
Deepest
Darkest
Brightest
Most hurtful thoughts
And you too, become a poet