Loose Writing Poem
There are so many words and such poetry inside me, flowing out too fast and formless for me to form substance currently. It's both exhausting and inspiring. I want to parade them on paper, but the puddles of pratter scramble and speed away before they can become matter.
My body feels like a cage for an insubstatial imaginative entity, I just spill and splatter wily words and whimsy on page after loose page of nonsense and abnormality.
I am wrapped up in layers of prattle and languish in pounds of pencil on paper.
Personality let loose to pointlessness. I fear to peel through the layers to find the patterns of value. Each is personal and precious, painful to place in the wastebasket.
But they have no purpose as loose-leaf letters, and I have not the will of sorting for sharing.
