Bandersnatch

So many poems in a little brain
Explode with violence sometimes. I find
I overwhelm the corners of my mind
With syllables and beats. The constant stain
Of words within is a delightful strain
But still a strain on where it is confined.
No matter how I try to hold or bind
The thoughts will flow. As easy stop the main
Or bid the sun depart as urge me to
Cease writing - or cease thinking what I write.
It is a source of pleasure and delight,
Of course, but even so what can I do?
Forced pleasure is still pleasure, but not just;
I write for joy - but also since I must.