Gosh, if I didn’t have a pen
And a paper to write on,
I would be dry and surely die,
Life is too cruel to get by
Without the soothing ink
- That calms what’s wrong.
Our minds are too complex,
Our thoughts too whirling,
And at times twistedly erratic.
Every so often I reckon
- That I’m going nuts,
For I don’t fathom,
The way the wires,
Are pulled and connected.
My mind says something,
I don’t want to do,
My heart yells for a cure.
My conflicted spirit
Wonders in a desert
Of doubts and bemusement,
And is badly attacked
By the callous winds
-That are felt as daggers
Trespassing human flesh,
Snapping my easily cracked bones,
And fraying my nerves, no less.
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Submission Name: Flea Market of Doubts
