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
It happens only on occasion,
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
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
But I do know that where
and whenever necessary,
through the sleepless nights and
my pen and paper will always be present
to help me navigate the depths of my