My life it is steady,
A plain of white,
Coloured with love
And thoughts
And ideas
And abstract in composition.

My mind is ready,
A mess of nonsense,
Noisy with whimsy
And questions
And worries
And alive with childish fancies.

My love is erratic,
A jumble of maybes,
Illusive with non-existence
And desire
And frenzy
And my heart has flight.

My memory is static,
A scrapbook story,
Maddeningly vibrant,
And sad
And perfect
And drafted in the colours of regret.

My dream is key,
A far-off someday,
Being a Utopia, it is hope,
And promise
And exertion
And everything I should be.

My writing is me,
Etched on to paper,
Each word dynamic with apprehension,
And truth
And belief
And with it the nonsense conforms.