Today, from the darkest confines of my room,
I write the thoughts that pour from my muddled brain.
They form words, but do not flow in ordered patterns,
nor make sense to the world that persists around me.
The monstrous prattling of a mashed up mind,
a veritable liquid emotion, though not thus filtrated.
They slide onto the page, a semblance of clumsy sentences
that become absorbed, as water into blotting paper.
They fall and as I prod them, with impatient curiosity,
sort each word, making meaningful its repository
in the passage, formed from the disorder of it.
It becomes a story, without a title, a manuscript of
musings, a meaningful dialogue of sorts, spelled out.
The thoughts transitioning to more meaningful content,
all becomes clear, all darkness now brought to light,
these, not muddled words, but the working of poetry.