The very act of writing these, my thoughts,
into the art of poetry produced
the thoughts of donning my written reasons
and fleeing with them back again into
the nominal simplicity of pen
and page, at what some call too ripe an age.
But then again, at other times in life,
the written word comes blunt and blundering
to my chaotic mind, reeking of mixed
emotions and scrambled words, praying that
its not discovered a fraud by keen eyes.
Other times I see a line to the minds
that usually buzz beyond my reach,
opening to a vast internet of
shared perceptions between those minds and mine.
Other times the words fall flat, devoid of
any emotion or conception to
illuminate the world wrapped around me.
But underlining ev'ry little thing,
I'm searching for my identity.