untitled


I feverishly write my thoughts down
in the middle of the night
and I know not why
I scribble ideas down on a piece of paper
immediately after they pop into my head
and I know not why
is anyone listening?
is anybody out there?
I know not why I write poetry
maybe to satisfy some primal urge
that maybe I was born with
is it a curse?
I lose sleep over my thoughts
I wallow in the self-pity of my adolescent mind
I am years wiser than my age
an eighty year old's mind
trapped in a sixteen year old's body
I live in the future
not in the present
nor the past
true
it is impossible not to think of the past from time to time
and when I reminisce I am saddened
so I look to the future
I am living in the present only in body
not in mind
I float along
hoping to someday catch up to the future I strive for
I need a love
to help me along
my soul mate
do I write feverishly in the middle of the night
for her?
do I scribble my ideas down immediately after they pop into my head
for her?
do I strive for a future
with her?
I would like to think so
or rather
I would not like to think at all about it right now
I would rather write feverishly
and ask questions as to why I do it
later.


By: Ryan Stancl