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Journey to Poetry

If only I could succumb to my mind,
just give in an actually think,
I could do this. Instead, I stare
into nothing, gaze out into nowhere.
Thoughts are jumbled, nothing is anything,
something is everything, and this will be.

Set my thoughts straight and just be
engaged in my work. However, my mind
is besotted. Playing games. Let me think!
I try and try and still I stare.
I see everything but I'm looking nowhere;
I beg, "Give me peace! A few seconds... Anything."

The storm is taking over. It is destroying anything
and everything in its path. This is going to be
a challenge. I have to compete with my mind,
it's racing and spinning, not allowing me to think.
I'm working, really. All you can see is a blank stare.
I've been sitting here for hours and still, nowhere.

I could show you the world but we've gone nowhere.
Looking down: my pen seems to not write anything.
Looking around: pens are scribbling. How can this be,
when mine seems to be out of touch with my mind?
Everyone else is working while I'm not allowed to think.
If I finish all I will be able to do is stare.

There's something more, beneath the stare,
this will get me somewhere, farther than nowhere.
I realize this could really be anything,
nothing in particular. This is how I can be
who I want to be: through the extension of my mind
onto my paper. I'm not sure what to think.

Nearing the end is what makes me think
that this is actually something. My blank stare
paid off, the spinning wheels, going nowhere
got me somewhere. This could be anything,
anything in the world I want it to be.
If you can spare the time, read this, if you don't mind:

My mind succumbs to poetry, broken down to think,
Out from the stare, and out of nowhere,
It could be anything, as for me, I choose to be.





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