I Don'T Know What I'M Writing For
I don't know what I'm writing for,
didn't start to find the cure
or rewind the cord
to find a vision true and pure
started to express distress
regarded as a mental mess
a brief relief and gentle ease
unheard words found release
polluted air surrounding ceased
clues poured spare with each piece
and every layer had an underneath
each more gruelling full of grief
an Autumn Fall turning every leaf
finding fitted Lego bricks but no design
a puzzle with no box
random pieces hard to slot
gritty echoes from sickening times
pulled from the rubble stock of my decline
separate scenes on one timeline
separated by my own mind
people, places, a point in time,
spaced through thought naive and blind,
this string of knots is one combined
not many which have got intertwined
each scenario more crazy
unlikely yet more maybe
cuz answers without knowledge
grew confusion ever solid, dipstick
gas clouds so thick in places liquid
fused and never flowing
just floating never knowing
expelling as I wrote,
clearing horror shows,
which emotionally and mentally stoked
could have turned, forget and go,
but in agony the ink flowed,
as though my pen morphed the gas
covering up my past, until at last
the understanding is grasped
understood and let it pass,
but the years are empty,
I've vented free,
so i guess now i write reinventing me,
and who knows maybe eventually
pressing on, willing, adventurously
I began because you didn't listen to me
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