My thoughts are wrapped around the finger
positioned at my skull,
words with no place to go.
My finger is a pen, my thoughts are ink
that grow until they pass the brink.
They spill over now
and I wonder how
I’ll let you know
how they go -- what they mean.
Everything starts to seem so hollow,
meaningless, until I look inside myself
and remember why I write.
My words are simple, white,
making others wonder why
I think the way I do,
and why I always seem to write down
meaningless things -- shallow phrases; open cages; thoughts let loose,
they turn into a noose that wraps around my neck so tight that I have to let everything go...
before I choke.
You may not understand my words, but I do... and that’s why I write.