Enter the subject that’s how I’ll start this verse,
lay my hand down and show you what my card is,
The truth is I’m not an artist, I’ve no talent whatsoever
I’m not the smartest, no, I’m not even clever
I just blurt this, absurd mist of thoughts sick and distraught
Twisted and twisting just begging to spew forth
Fisted and swinging, marching in hordes
Kicking and screaming, locked inside my brain
I push them out and away but they just return and remain
Intense, and the pain, it never ends
And I’ve no real defense, (merely pretense)
In a sense, my mind is like an asylum
For these thoughts to find sanctum
Wicked and piercing, stabs of inner violence
I can’t get a moment of inner silence with them wailing
in my head like banshees, wanton
So I just rant on, papers
Emotions bursting like geysers
Words spilling for acres
And I just can’t waver
Hands steady with a pen, the same way with a razor
In ways, forms, it’s like I’m being possessed
These thoughts rush over me, and I just cannot protest
These thoughts they insist, and my hands they press
It’s not a form of release when it still leaves me distressed depressed
not worse for wear but neither good as new.
I guess I just write cause I don’t know what else to do.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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