Sprouting Poetry

Sprouting Poetry


Why when things are good,
Can I not write poetry?
Why does there have to be a disaster,
Happening to me.

Why when there are worries,
Love lost, fear or doubt.
Do these words come to me easily?
And start to sprout.

How come I know things are bad?
When I put pen to paper.
And it flows and develops,
When there’s no emotional sater.

It’s a catch 22,
Where these outpourings are therapy.
I write so Prolifically,
I know it’s a desperate me.

In it escaping my mind,
To my hand, to my fingers, to my pen.
It’s an indication,
That I’m dying inside again.

And writing so many words,
Just reinforces cold hard facts.
That my stability is weakening,
So again my brain and hand reacts.

By writing it so freely,
It tells me my Internal state.
Full of angst, Pain, love
Emotion, sadness or hate.

So it makes my life easier?
To jot down some more?
My self-improvement and misery,
Is slowly, but surely, emptying my core.