Poetic Tantrums

This is my first language, and the only one I truly understand.
My mind is a deep and vast canvas that can never be filled.
A black hole.
I write because it is the only thing I'll ever know.
What they call daydreamer I call schizophrenic.
I didn't ask for this ceaseless mind, I didn't plan it.
And from where I'm standing, the rest of the word resembles Einstein's logic.
We'll never understand each other, like the moon talking to a fish.
Inevitable confusion.
My mind is not properly equipped, and to make since of it all and to express myself frantically, I become an infant unable to communicate.
So I write..it is the only language I know.
Poetic tantrums.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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