My muse is my depression, which extrudes
Itself through poetry. I do not feel
The harsh swings of emotion and dark moods
My words seem to imply, but they are real.
They simply slide out of my nether brain
Into the verse without my feeling them;
That's why I write the poems: to contain
The darkness in my soul, which I condemn
And push aside, keeping my lighter thoughts
So I can always smile. When I cry
The tears arrange themselves into bon mots:
An epigram, a couplet, or in my
Usual mode, a sonnet. So they form
Poems and I write them to stay warm.
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