Undecided

I don't want to write this poem

A thought on paper takes too much

But it's me writing   yes?

This energy channels through

Though I don't, I do

And the meaning slowly seeps out

What is my hand up to?

Doing that which I don't want to do

Strange, yet not inexplicable

Willingly, yet by no desire

The pencil marks

As my eyes grow tired

So meaning, should it be?

Or a purpose one can see?

Yes, to show one thing

That, really, my mind

Sometimes, likes to spring

Into I know not what

Perhaps, this is to reveal

Certain bursts within

A brain

Not constrained

Not always sane

With an aspect, of letting go