Poetic Tantrums

This is my first language, and the only one I truly understand. My mind is a deep and vast canvas that can never be filled. A black hole. I write because it is the only thing I'll ever know. Oblivious. What they call daydreamer I call schizophrenic. I didn't ask for this ceaseless mind, I didn't plan it. And from where I'm standing, the rest of the word resembles Einstein's logic. Cryptic. We'll never understand each other, like the moon talking to a fish. Inevitable confusion. My mind is not properly equipped, and to make since of it all and to express myself frantically, I become an infant unable to communicate. So I write..it is the only language I know. Poetic tantrums.