Not sure how I got here,

with no time for sleep or life

let alone to write.


A mere fabrication of my imagination

that I can't seem to control.


There's rarely a muse or a purpose,

just these words that flow from

my soul to the page in

chicken-scratched ink.


It happens only on occasion,

without provocation,

yet every time it's magic.


I never have a plan.

There's no outline or frame that can

visibly be described;

a lack of structure that seems entirely contrived

yet it feels perfectly and

whole-heartedly right.


There is no other way,

with the constant pace of the world,

to set aside a designated

time for such art.

Even sleep lacks a schedule

yet it somehow finds time...


The same with writing.


I'm unsure where I will end up,

which steps will have to be taken,

which bridges will have to be

crossed to reach my illusive

ultimate destination.


But I do know that where

and whenever necessary,

through the sleepless nights and

flickering lights

my pen and paper will always be present

to help me navigate the depths of my

subconscious insights.

This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

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