Robert Frost
Loved and lost
Much
But never lost his touch.

oh no i forgot
my mind again it happens
to the best of us

my mind has collapsed
upon itself
here is now

solved a riddle of
my mind elephant real in
room between my ears

Is poetry like rubbing salt on already open wounds,
or is it what heals them?

Is it the cure to the poison present in our soul,
or is it, instead, the bane of what we feel?

what if in lieu,

poetry is what keeps mankind alive
through words once unsaid and unwritten.

It carries on our prophecy
and alleviates the vague suffering
present in the deep pit of our insufferable, mortal minds.

Poetry,
is the way our soul inevitably bleeds.

In a forest
Of twists and turns and nothing honest
Everything is deceiving
The deep trees
Hide chaos unravelling
the leaves are dry as they rustle in the breezes
The footsteps are unnoticed
Nor a care is given to those wheezes
The lakes overflow
As it rains with such a might
Still no flood in fear that its not a strong sight
In plain view it's a secluded space
A good distant scenery that hides ugly grace
Plenty a tree and many a river
So much everywhere
Yet it feels hollow
There is always a hue of unknown sorrow
A dark ground that's sees seldom light
You will hear faint voices
In the vicinity when night
You can't escape this
You never will
And can't change it
But can pretend you did
Yet you'll not be freed
From this forest
One of a kind
The mind
Whose demons won't be tamed
As eventually even your soul is claimed

the monkey minded chatter
as mad as a mad hatter,
the clutter of thoughts that clatter
is all mind that's made of matter

i take a plunger to the clogged
toilet that is my mind
and flush.  i unbind
myself