Our fault

Is it our fault?

That we can never be satisfied

Is it our mistake?

We corrupt our own joy

Is it bad?

Our guilt, always ringing

Why is it?

Always over-thinking

Joy of reading

The joy of reading a new book

Crisp new pages

White

Uncreased

Promising

The much greater joy of reading an old book

Pages yellowing

Tender

Brittle

Invaluable

Can’t stop

I’m high

My pen won’t stop

It wants to write

Anything

Everything

Like I got this music

That won’t stop

Won’t stop getting me more high

I’m high already

Madness pumping, screaming

Like a crazy child

No reason, no situation, no inspiration

Just a string, a continuous string

Haphazardly, jumbling, all over the place

Can’t collect them all

But some are finding their way through