It would not have mattered if those words made any sense,
Nor how I looked like a nervous fellow
Speaking those words aloud, writing them down
As long as those disturbing thoughts
Freed from me, escaped me, gone
So soon forgotten.
When I write poems
Or if they are poems at all,
They're for my enjoyment
Critique all you want,
They're oblivious to the eyes
Like an evening streetwalker's silhouette
Sometimes words aren't meant to be touched
But to simply exist
To ease the pain
The writer's woe
Equal to the vomit draft
Of an angry letter
Never to be sent.
It's a mess
In writing this, This thing!
What is this, What is This?
Nevertheless it is here through the touches of the keyboard
Words that don't really make any sense
But are there
Making me more of a nervous fellow
So soon forgotten