An epiphany
is something I now consider an antiquity;
and relentlessly I have sought,
a productive, unstoppable train of thought.
But to no avail.
Instead my words hit the page like Hell-hail;
and it must sound tell-tale,
But I still feel frail
because I spilled my entrails onto this page
and all i have are a few lines and a violent rage
that can't be quelled until I'm known for poetic grace.
Am I crazy? Did that sound sane?
I have no idea; I have a strange brain.

Writing the words
the emptying
of my emotional recycle bin

I pour them out
with intent to demolish
to remove the evidence
the unwanted remembrance
the devastation
that threatens to unravel my sanity