It Works


United States
42° 2' 10.158" N, 88° 18' 51.1632" W

My brain struggles to translate.
There are multitudes of boxes and spilled paperwork,
Squares and circles and words running down the walls
All by themselves.
I love them
And I love how they run rampant around my twisted noggin,
Waiting to be released.
But the standard for liberation is quite unfortunate,
For when I open my mouth the things that flow out
Are often not at all what I had intended.

I beg and plead with them to do as I say
And I worry when it is time to send them on their way.
I order them to “SIT!”
Then I place them in perfect position,
Replacing some which may strike me as slightly inappropriate.
It seems they might cooperate.
I send out hope upon hope that they might adhere to their assignments.

One by one my words float out of their single file line
Just as it is too late to pull them back and retrain them to listen.
And I find myself spewing senseless
No more than a senile old man throwing a dictionary as he yells for his dinner.
These are not my thoughts!

So to make a long story short and a short story long…
I found a friend.
My box dwellers, my geometric fables,
Do not always need to exit through my oral cavity.
Instead they exit smoothly,
Rushing down my neck and sliding over my shoulder.
Bumping over my fingertips until they integrate with the ink in my pen.
From there, my words float on
Until they lovingly collide with the paper surface.

All of a sudden, I bear in my hands
Hundreds of conceptual pieces, conveying the art that is buried in my skull
Exactly as I meant them to be delivered.
From this point, how they are perceived is none of my business,
Because they are just how they are meant to be.
This is why I write.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741