Cerebral overload.
Emotive wordplay.
I compose
Heartfelt views.
Descriptions vivid.
Bizarre emotion.
I write,
expect to be understood.
This is madness.
to hope for miracles.
Still, I pen,
all those leafs of paper.
It is all a matter
of . . . you pat me on the back,
I'll do you.
Analytical encumbered.
Intellectually second-rate.
Poet without verse,
simply doodling.
Delusional, desperate,
unfilled lines,
meaningless prose.
Difficult to get to raison d'être.
Imagined ideas.
Ground-swell of feelings.
Leaking from my brain,
these wonderful thoughts,
writing them as to be indecipherable.
A ravenous need.
To be understood,
failing.
When that happens
paranoia
sinks his gory teeth
into this writer's psyche,
tormenting, hovering
literary death.
For there is a season
for collapse.