Let me be honest here:
Sometimes I hate the fact
that my brain cannot stop
musing word after word,
as I sift through feelings,
sights, sounds, speeches, and thoughts—
then knit them into verse.
I am barely able to
hold the desire to
immortalize each line
with my pen and keyboard.
For keepsakes, I reason.

Funny I complain ’bout
how uninhibited
my mind can be and how
ideas flow just like
water gushing from a
leaky tap, pooling floods—
when others struggle and
dream to find their muse, the
alchemy of their souls.

The thing is, I am paid
to curate, write pieces,
but not of this kind, and
like weeds, they’ve taken root.
Verses sadly become
unwelcome distractions
from my worldly matters.

I am guilty as charged,
unable to break free
from the grip of daydreams.
I weave stanzas that mean
nothing to others, while
I neglect the burdens
I am bound to carry—
when in truth I am now
slowly numbed and murdered
by culpability,
and my own feeling of
inferiority
from lacking mastery
in tapestry. But still,

this brain doesn’t know how
to stop buzzing, just like
a bustling hive, whereas
my hands just press on with
penning those echoing,
loud noises, unasked for.