The A.D.D. poet, knows not of forms.
His mind is adrift, his thoughts move in swarms.
He loathes punctuation, he oft lacks the words.
To convey his whole meaning, to strike the right chords
He has no control, of what he retains
He tries to make sense, of what little remains.
He's left with an archive, of incomplete visions
Forged of distractions, which breed indecision.
He jots every line, with the best of intention.
Trying to conclude, despite fading attention.
Then he has an epiphany, if explored he could finally be free!!!!!
Then he gets hungry, makes a sandwich, and is off to watch TV.