I used to think-
That this was only a blob of words
Randomly formed
Uselessly scrambled
Thoughtlessly created- or maybe
Thought through too much.

I used to think-
This was for lazy writers,
Who didn't know what to say-
And had too much of it.
Or for should be novelists,
Who couldn't form paragraphs.

I used to
Get sick of metaphors,
Scream to get to the point!
Sometimes it was hidden-
Sometimes there was none at all.

Now- I am just a blob of words,
Of emotion: joy, pain, regret.
A worn out novelist
Whose mind has gone blank,
But whose heart has grown full
To no end.

Now I structure words
Chaotically,
Like the thoughts that swirl.
Formed into a prayer,
A petition,
Or letter to a friend.

Now I use the figurative
to decipher the literal-
Find the space between real life
And fantasy
And make them connect.

I now do
What I used to
With a paper and pen.