Writing is an organization of what

Goes on in my head; it gives

The fleeting thoughts meaning and form and solidity

As they float past in my brain in their magical shapes and colors

Van Gogh swirls of dark blue and yellow spirals

That’s why

The poems help

They take the Smallest Things,

Those fleeting thoughts and words that like to fly about

Little glittery spots of gold

And turn them into

What makes Sense

To the Rest of

The World

The lines and lines of prose

With their yellow lines and blue circles

They all seem to

Expect for me to make sense

All the Time

But that’s not how the thoughts work

They should understand

But they never do- I think as uniquely as a snowflake, as we all do

And it is beautiful, but someone wants us all

To think like rows and rows and rows of black and white boxes

And I refuse.

If they want to know how I think, they will be in for a surprise-

due to the nature of my writing so logical and ordered, making sense

In my brain, I see the most

Random thoughts

Silver glassy



Purple explosions



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