A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

My pen slowly glides over the paper's off-whiteness,
These strange shapeless figures - I believe they are words -
Pursuing each other, each hurt is a sentence.
Onto my retina, an image they burn.


The image I'm viewing lives deep within me.
I think it's familiar - is that mess my soul?
And I do understand why it glitters so fiercely,
And I put pen to paper to express what it told,


And these muddles of letters, they take on new meaning,
And the order of words is important of course,
And I try to explain all the strange things I'm feeling,
And to trace my emotions right back to their source.


So I write many pages that truly mean nothing
With fancy expressions, decorated, smart,
Or a mere simple sentence I need to mean something:
The flecks of inadequacy that complicate my heart.