Diseased

It's bad.

It's worse.

No longer abiding silence.

No longer tolerating chaos.

Silence calls swirling words.

My mind organized chaos.

How bad it must be when at the stoplight a poem composes itself entirely. The short time span of yellow to green to red signals synapses.

Lost and unable to  be retrieved and logged for eternity.

But there will be more.

Once the faucet opens, the stream of words and images arrive unbidden and at all times.

I sleep the untethered dreams of poets

I walk the twisted paths of dreamers

I write the tormented words of artists

And breathe the augmented air of authors.