The brain is a collection of thoughts.

Gained from others or crafted on our own.

My mind is a mess of words and ideas.

As my sporadic tendencies have shown.

Most people’s thoughts are kept safe,

Locked deep inside their head.

The brain is an infinite storage space,

So not everything has to be said.

Minds like mine don’t work that way

What’s inside must be shared and expressed.

The writer feels like the world is a canvass

On which our hearts are to be pressed.

Writing allows an outlet

For anger, joy and grief.

Like venting to a dear, old friend

It allows a sound relief.

In my casek, it’s more than that

Including all the rest.

I write prose and poems and fiction and such

Because it’s what I do best.

I fumble when I speak aloud

When nervous or strange company.

But give me typed or written word

That’s when I’m truly free.