Whenever I feel lost I pick up a pen,
Hoping this ink and paper will bring me home to myself again.
I let the pressure of my pen release the pressure on my brain,
To quiet my thoughts and help me stay somewhat sane.
For it’s only in this act of creative release,
That I am able to access the quiet of peace.
And so I write and I write until my hand starts to ache,
Knowing I will stick with it as long as it takes.
Without any real structure, method or plan,
I simply write, in search of the great “I am.”
BACKSTORY
I wrote this poem at 02:24 am when I couldn't sleep because my brain was on absolute overdrive about nothing.
The minute I opened my Notes app, this poured out.
The minute I finished, I fell asleep.
Weird, huh!
