Some more writing related musings in poetry form.
When I was little growing up,
I never did feel that alone.
My mind was filled with many worlds,
And creatures that I could play with.
Even when I had grown up,
My mind was still not really mine.
My house guests they refused to leave,
Unless replaced with someone new.
The worlds they grew so vividly,
Sometimes it took my breath away.
I struggled to describe them well,
Either in writing or in art.
In time I realized I would,
Always have a crowded mind.
With characters and places too,
Things to escape to when I could.
A writer’s lot is to feel crazed,
With voices not entirely mine.
I try to tame them, coax them on,
Into stories that I write.
Though sometimes inconvenient,
I pity those who do not have,
These worlds that exist in their heads.
How empty their poor minds must be.