Poem: Writing

Writing

I struggle with picking my brain; scooping out thoughts laced within each other.
There are so many to choose, therefore I have nothing to say.
Untangling them in order to focus on one proves to be rather complicated.
That's what happens when your me.
Don't confuse it with being shy, it's more like being deep.
Sit with me awhile; provide me with some quiet encouragment.

As words appear in a ghostly form to hang before my eyes, ideas begin to materialize.
Sentences flow freely from the tip of my pen.
A story is fast approaching.
My mind is no longer in the present; I am no longer me.
Notice my meditation, but do not disturb.
I can not tolerate disruption.

My escape from reality is short lived; I have been productive in my absence.
I have written.
Whatever it has become is no concern to me.
It's all the same; my thoughts and dreams.
You are welcome to take a peek anytime you please.

Dana

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To have great poets... there must be great audiences
~ Walt Whitman

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