Power of the Brain

Words fumble around in my head. Like a restless child lying in their bed. They don't make sentences, not a single one. Especially after my long day is done. It all began six years ago. Before I even started to grow. A lesson in school was the simple task. And in the glory my teacher would bask. She put words together to form weird rhymes. And I would be confused all those times. After awhile the lessons became sensible. And I started writing poems the were dispensable. Now I lay awake at night and think, with all these words on the brink. The brink of turning into something more, and that's when I close the door. I close it on the world around me, so that the words turn into what they want to be. In the end, I lay with three things; my words, their story, and myself.