i have to
acknowledge
there is no
way all of
the ideas
in my brain
will find there
way to the page

and still
as i scribble
the muse sings
and eight more
ideas are born

all i do is
writewritewrite
words which remain
mostly unnoticed
an unpoetic poet
too poetic to be
taken seriously
unwilling to
color within
the lines

slapping scabs
onto the wall
calling it art
while secretly
enjoying feeling
anything but numb